All the Little Ways

Chapter 1 Victoria

Every courtship was a dance, and even though this seduction was professional, it was no exception.

Victoria had been pursuing Nash Winton—the Nash Winton, as in the elusive, eccentric billionaire Nash Winton—for the better part of a year.

Now, Victoria was closing in, her body rife with the delicious anticipation of consummation…

well, metaphorically, anyway. Victoria was so thrilled, she could do another dance—the sort of dorky, fist-pumping jig that one only did alone, or in sitcoms.

Victoria arrived at the restaurant early.

The host greeted her warmly and led Victoria over to the table, which was situated smack in the center of the place, where Nash could see and be seen, just as he liked.

Victoria thanked the host and discreetly slipped him a hundred for securing her the last-minute reservation of a prime table.

Then, Victoria assessed the lighting, choosing the chair that would bathe her in the most flattering glow.

She sat and crossed her legs, which were intentionally unsheathed from their usual trousers and instead clad in a formfitting pencil skirt with a generous slit.

Most of the time, the boys’ club prevailed.

But sometimes, the hint of an extra little something worked to pique the interest and capture the attention of a man who didn’t need any club, a man whose fortune rendered rules irrelevant, a man who had already blazed a trail of indisputable conquests and relished a challenge, a man who was seemingly one of the few tycoons without any interest in playing with rockets.

Five minutes later, as Victoria was faux-casually scanning an index report on her phone, Nash sauntered in, making his presence known as he waded through the restaurant, stopping at various tables, first to level a boisterous greeting at a movie-studio head in gym shorts and then a “Howdy, ya handsome devil” to a hedge funder who recently closed a deal to control the majority of high-end retail in the United States.

When Nash reached their table, Victoria put down her phone and gave him a friendly smile.

Victoria’s bottom line was abundantly clear to both of them: She wanted Nash’s money—not for yachts or Birkins, but to make an indisputable case to everyone at her wealth-management firm that she should at last be named managing director, having landed this ferociously sought-after whale.

Victoria stood to greet him and Nash’s hand grazed the small of her back as they embraced.

“Vic—can I call you Vic?”

Victoria loathed nicknames and would likely pretend not to hear someone if they dared to abbreviate her name. She looked directly into Nash Winton’s intelligent eyes. “Let me handle your portfolio and you can call me anything you want.”

The dance had begun. Nash’s mouth twisted upwards with amusement. “All you care about are my assets?” Nash asked.

“I could say the same thing to you,” Victoria teased.

Nash took an unsubtle, appreciative glance towards her figure. It was then that Victoria knew, without a doubt, that she had him. Her whale was on the line.

Just a few days later, Victoria would marvel at how everything could come spectacularly undone in an instant, how a carefully constructed life was no more impervious to complete disaster than a sandcastle was immune to the threat of a wave.

But at 1:15 p.m., Victoria was still forty-seven minutes away from losing Nash and forfeiting the role of managing director to her coworker Mark Berg, a position they both had been contending for since day one.

It was a designation that, if meritocracy were as fashionable as nepotism, Victoria should have been a lock for, even though she lacked the prep school connections, the Ivy League pedigree, and the sprawling ancestral manse on Nantucket that came with them.

Victoria glanced around her corner office, taking a rare moment to appreciate her surroundings.

She let her gaze pass over the mid-century modern couch, the artfully arranged objects on the coffee table, and the pearly white cymbidium orchid that was thriving despite her flagrant neglect.

It all came together to create a sense of tasteful, if studied, luxury—the interior design equivalent of a sweater from the Row, of which Victoria owned several.

Something understated and expensive but without a giant label on it that screamed, Hello!

I’m loaded, can’t you tell by this logo?

Victoria lightly tapped her heels on the area rug beneath her desk.

She didn’t struggle with nerves before pitches, didn’t crumble under pressure or quake at the idea of public speaking.

The opposite, in fact. Victoria lived for the thrill of bringing in a new asset and multiplying a fortune on their behalf.

Victoria could deliver a TED Talk to rousing applause without so much as considering a beta-blocker, glancing at a confidence monitor, or breaking a sweat, and had in fact accomplished this very feat five years prior, just shy of her thirty-ninth birthday, allowing her to check yet another item off her list of life goals.

Becoming her firm’s youngest and first female managing director instead of Mark Berg, a Wharton grad born and raised in Brentwood who managed to insert this information into most of his conversations, would satisfy another.

A movement in her peripheral vision caught Victoria’s eye and snapped her back into focus.

She shot a glance out the floor-to-ceiling glass expanse that separated her corner office from the cubicles housing the assistant pool.

Her assistant, Harper, met Victoria’s gaze with an exuberant wave, then launched into a series of hand movements that Victoria couldn’t interpret.

“What?” she mouthed. Harper leapt up from her chair in platforms and a collared crop top—ostensibly an oblique nod to business casual—her three-inch heels not impeding her speed as she galloped over to the glass wall demarcating Victoria’s office from gen pop.

Harper mimed being stabbed and Victoria screwed up her face in confusion, then pointed to her door, indicating that since Harper was already convulsing at her threshold, she might as well come in.

Harper pushed the door open a few inches and stuck her head through like a puppy sniffing out the location of a treat.

“You’re going to kill!” Harper whisper-shouted. “Your slides are lit.”

“Thanks, Harper.”

“Mark Berg thinks he has rizz but he’s one ass-grab away from getting hashtag canceled! Do you want to, like, close the shades and dance around to ‘About Damn Time’?”

“Oh. That sounds…fun. Maybe another time.” With a karaoke machine, in hell.

Harper flashed Victoria a thumbs-up and clomped away.

Several minutes later, a muted chime alerted her to a Slack message and Victoria shifted her attention to one of the three screens on her desk. A chat box started with Hey, B!

It had taken a few months for Victoria to get used to her assistant’s syntax, an adjustment period before she realized that Harper was teeming with youth in a way that required an onslaught of slang, emojis, and exclamation marks to communicate.

Messages from Harper popped up, rapid-fire.

B like boss, not bitch!

OMG I would never call u that!

LOL!

Literally!

Victoria wondered if Harper was literally laughing out loud at the thought. She, like the rest of her generation, seemed to have a flawed relationship with the word literal.

The messages kept coming:

I know u don’t want to dance but do u want anything else before the BIG mtg!?! Like a latte? Or a matcha? Or a green juice? Endorphins! Yay!

There was a case to be made that what Victoria needed was another assistant.

One, for example, who showed a fleeting interest in the world of finance, or who practiced a more judicious approach to her use of exclamation marks, or who had a résumé devoid of the glaring nepotism that had landed Harper the position in the first place.

Because yes, Harper’s parents were longtime clients.

If pressed, Victoria would have suggested that they take a little time to get to know their offspring and then, correspondingly, find another field—any other field—better suited to Harper’s interests and talents.

Victoria was glad she hadn’t been consulted, though.

Despite Harper knowing the lyrics to every Taylor Swift song but being unable to create an Airtable to save her life, Victoria was charmed by her.

Victoria tapped out a quick reply: Thanks, Harper. Appreciate it, but I’m good.

Harper wrote back, U know u r! SLAY ALL DAY!

A smile tugged at Victoria’s mouth and she shot another glance out of her office, hoping to lock eyes with her assistant, but instead Victoria intersected gazes with Mark, who was walking by in a flash of Zegna and hair pomade.

Mark’s head snapped away from Victoria, but not before she caught his death stare.

Victoria’s stomach suddenly coiled—a familiar pang of hunger mixed with something else altogether, a bitter, foreign sensation.

She tensed. Her digestive tract twisted again and Victoria chastised herself for skipping breakfast in favor of an acidic orange juice; she didn’t have time for GI rebellion.

She considered asking Harper to bring her something to eat but rejected this idea in the time it took her to stand up from her desk.

The litany of questions and opinions that would follow was simply not worth it.

What kind of snack? DF and GF? I swear my skin is literally glowing since I cut out dairy.

You deserve some carbs, girl! I mean woman. I mean BOSS.