Chapter 3 - Gaby #2
"Mr. Brown eviscerated my presentation." I took a long swallow, not caring about the curious glance from the waiter. "Said I was coasting on my name. As if the Blanchard name means anything anymore."
"He's an asshole," Lisa said flatly. "Everyone knows it. HR has a file on him thicker than the phone book."
"It doesn't matter. He's still my boss. He still controls whether I get promoted or pushed out." I poked at my pad Thai without appetite. "I just feel like no matter what I do, I can't win. I can't prove myself. There's always going to be someone who thinks I don't deserve to be there."
Lisa was quiet for a moment, studying me with those sharp paralegal eyes that missed nothing. "Is that why you look like you haven't slept? Because of work?"
I hesitated. The paranoid imaginings of last night felt stupid in the bright light of day, with Lisa's practical presence across from me. But I needed to tell someone, needed to hear her say I was being ridiculous, so I could believe it.
"I think someone's been watching me," I said quietly.
Lisa's eyebrows shot up. "What?"
"Last night, after I left Finnegan's. There was a black SUV parked outside my building. It had followed me from the bar—I'm almost sure of it. And then..." I trailed off, shaking my head. "I don't know. I've been feeling eyes on me for a few days now. Like someone's tracking my movements."
"Jesus, Gaby." Lisa leaned forward, her wine forgotten. "Have you called the police?"
"And told them what? A car parked on a public street? A feeling?" I laughed bitterly. "They'd think I was crazy. I think I'm crazy."
"You're not crazy. But you are stressed, exhausted, and running on fumes." She reached across to squeeze my hand. "When's the last time you took a day off? A real one, not just a weekend spent catching up on emails?"
I couldn't remember.
"Maybe you should talk to someone," Lisa said gently. "A professional. Not because you're crazy, but because you're burning out. The paranoia, the insomnia, the feeling like you can't measure up—that's anxiety, Gaby. Textbook anxiety. And it's treatable."
She was probably right. She was almost always right. But the thought of admitting I needed help—of confirming that I wasn't strong enough to handle things on my own—felt like another failure.
"I'll think about it," I said, which we both knew meant no.
***
My father called at seven, just as I was walking home from the subway. The sky had gone dark early, heavy clouds threatening rain, and the streetlights cast long shadows across the sidewalk.
"Gabrielle." His voice was clipped, efficient. "I wanted to remind you about the Carlsen gala next month. You'll need an appropriate dress."
No greeting. No "how are you." Just straight to business, as always.
"I remember, Dad."
"Carlsen's son will be there. Recently divorced, works in venture capital. I told his father you'd be happy to sit with them at dinner."
I stopped walking, my free hand clenching at my side. "You're setting me up? Without asking me?"
"I'm providing you with an opportunity. You're twenty-five, Gabrielle. It's time to start thinking strategically about your future."
Strategically. Like marriage was a business merger. Like my value could be calculated in terms of connections and potential grandchildren.
"I'm focusing on my career right now."
"Yes, I heard about your presentation today." His tone sharpened. "Richard Brown called me. Said it was adequate but that your attention to detail needs work."
The betrayal hit me like a physical blow. Mr. Brown had called my father. To report on my performance like I were a child whose parent-teacher conference hadn't gone well.
"I didn't know you and Mr. Brown were in touch," I managed.
"Richard and I have maintained a professional relationship despite my... setbacks. He's doing me a favor, keeping an eye on you. Making sure you don't embarrass the family name further."
Further. As if I'd been the one to commit securities fraud. As if I'd been the one to destroy everything.
"I have to go, Dad." My voice came out flat, dead. "I'll see you at the gala."
I ended the call before he could respond and stood on the dark sidewalk, shaking with rage and humiliation and something that felt terrifyingly close to grief.
He would never see me. Would never look at me and see a person instead of an extension of himself, a chess piece to be moved around his shrinking board.
I could work myself to death at that firm, could single-handedly save their quarterly profits, and he'd still only see his disappointing daughter who needed to be managed.
The rain started—cold, fat drops that splattered against my coat and ran down my face. Or maybe those were tears. I couldn't tell anymore.
I walked the rest of the way home in the rain, not bothering to hurry. By the time I reached my building, I was soaked through and shivering.
My apartment felt emptier than usual. I peeled off my wet clothes, wrapped myself in a robe, and stood at the window with a cup of tea I didn't really want.
The street below was quiet. No black SUV. No watchers in the shadows. Just puddles reflecting streetlights and the occasional car swishing past on the wet asphalt.
I should have felt relieved. Instead, I felt foolish. Paranoid. Exactly as crazy as I'd accused myself of being.
But underneath the self-recrimination, something else lingered. A memory of green eyes in a coffee shop. A presence that had felt, for one electric moment, like being truly seen.
I pressed my forehead against the cold glass and watched the empty street, feeling more alone than I'd ever felt in my life.