Epilogue Two
HAILEY
San Francisco doesn’t do sunrise the way Queens does.
It does fog—soft, silver, rolling off the bay like the whole city is being developed in a darkroom—and I stand at the window of my tiny furnished sublet at six a.m. in my best blazer, watching it burn off, wondering whether I’m as cut out for this executive life as my sister Jenna is.
She left our home in Queens eighteen years ago and built a career out of sheer willpower, sharp intellect, and perfectly tailored neutral tones.
I don’t have her bulletproof armor yet, and I certainly don’t have her husband Dominic’s effortless, room-commanding arrogance.
But as I smooth my hands down the front of my slacks and grab the leather tote they bought me as a going-away gift, I remind myself of my brother-in-law’s parting advice.
Brutal honesty and math.
I can do math.
The Canfield Group occupies the top four floors of a gleaming glass spire in the Financial District.
The elevator ride makes my ears pop, and my stomach drops somewhere around the twentieth floor.
When the doors finally part, I’m greeted by acres of brushed steel, white marble, and the hushed, high-stakes hum of elite venture capital.
I approach the receptionist’s desk—a massive block of unpolished granite that looks like it was carved from a mountainside exclusively for this room.
“Hailey Pemberton,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t betray the frantic flutter in my chest. “First day. I’m the new executive assistant to Mr. Canning.”
The receptionist, a woman with a perfectly sleek chignon and an impeccably tailored navy suit, offers a polite, measured smile. She taps at her keyboard and hands me an employee swipe card on a lanyard.
“Welcome to the Canfield Group, Ms. Pemberton. Mr. Canning is wrapping up a call. Please have a seat in the lounge; he’ll be right out to greet you personally.”
I nod, retreating to a low-slung, aggressively modern white leather sofa that probably costs more than my college tuition.
The moment I sit, I unearth my phone from my new tote, rest the swipe card against the bag’s pristine leather, and snap a quick photo.
I drop it into the group chat I share with my sister and brother-in-law.
Me:
Infiltrated the fortress. The perimeter is secure. Haven’t been thrown out yet.
Three dots immediately bubble on the screen. Jenna is typing.
Jenna:
Posture, Hailey. Shoulders back. Do not let the marble intimidate you. You earned that seat. Don’t let them see you sweat.
A second later, Dominic chimes in.
Dominic:
Give ’em hell, kid. If Canning gives you any grief, remind him I have enough capital to outbid him on his next deal just for fun. Brutal honesty and math. You’ve got this.
I smile, the tight knot of anxiety in my stomach loosening just a fraction.
They might be thousands of miles away in Chicago, but their combined presence helps me feel less nervous.
I take a deep breath, slip the phone back into my tote, and loop the lanyard around my neck, sitting up a little straighter.
Before I can overthink my posture any further, the heavy frosted-glass doors at the end of the corridor swing open.
I brace myself, plastering on my most professional, Jenna-approved smile, prepared to meet the titan of venture capital.
But the man striding toward me isn’t the formidable Thomas Canning.
It’s Xavier Field.
My shoulders drop a fraction of an inch in relief.
I did all three of my rigorous interview rounds with Xavier.
He’s the “Field” in Canfield, the firm’s other founding partner—intelligent, difficult to read, and currently wearing a tight smile that instantly has me worrying his statuesque face will crack.
Xavier Field is beautiful in the way a Renaissance sculpture is beautiful—perfectly proportioned, cold to the touch, and designed to make you feel slightly inadequate just by standing next to it.
“Hailey. Welcome aboard,” Xavier says, extending a hand and giving mine a brisk shake before immediately letting go. “Thomas is still tied up on a call. So you’ve drawn the short straw and I’m the one showing you around.”
He gestures for me to follow him past the granite desk and into the inner sanctum of the Canfield Group.
“I wouldn’t consider it a short straw,” I reply, managing a polite, professional smile as I follow him down the expansive, art-lined hallway.
Xavier doesn’t laugh, though the corner of his mouth twitches. He walks me through the layout. “Kitchen is on the left. Cold brew on tap, though Thomas prefers pour-over. Boardroom A is for external pitches, Boardroom B is internal strategy only. And your desk is here.”
He gestures to a sleek, curved workstation positioned directly outside a massive frosted-glass corner office. The desk is immaculate, equipped with dual monitors, a multi-line phone system, and a sprawling view of the bay that makes my stomach do a nervous flip.
“It’s perfect,” I say, dropping my leather tote into the bottom drawer.
“It’s functional,” Xavier corrects, tapping his phone screen. “All right. Thomas’s line just freed up. Let’s get the introductions out of the way so you can start the onboarding materials.”
My heart lodges firmly in my throat. This is it. Jenna’s voice echoes in my head: Posture, Hailey. Shoulders back. I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and follow Xavier as he pushes open the heavy glass door to the corner office.
“Thomas,” Xavier says, stepping inside. “Your new EA is here. Hailey Pemberton.”
The office is massive, bathed in the soft, foggy morning light.
Behind a sprawling oak desk stands a man pouring a cup of coffee from a silver carafe.
He’s wearing a tailored charcoal suit that screams stealth wealth, his blond, silver-flecked hair perfectly styled.
He turns around, the polite, measured smile of a billionaire founder already forming on his handsome face.
And then I stop dead.
My sensible flats skid to a halt on the hardwood floor. All the air violently vacuums out of my lungs.
The coffee carafe knocks sharply against the porcelain mug. His polite boardroom smile vanishes. He stares at my face, drops his gaze to the swipe card hanging around my neck, then looks straight back into my eyes.
“Lucy?” he breathes.
The name drops into the quiet office like a live grenade. Xavier frowns, looking back and forth between us. “Lucy? Thomas, this is Hailey.”
I can’t speak. I can’t breathe. And I’m super pissed at myself for refusing to google this guy before I walked into his office.
Lucy. The fake name I gave to the devastatingly handsome older stranger I met in the hotel bar after the James Foundation Gala.
The man who bought me three martinis and listened to me concoct a story about a woman who runs an online library for underprivileged children and occasionally presents at international conferences.
The same stranger whose hotel room I ended up in, who spent five hours showing me exactly why experienced men with quiet confidence were infinitely better than guys my own age.
The stranger I ghosted with nothing more than Stay mysterious written on the hotel stationery.
Because I was never supposed to see him again.
And now he’s my boss.
Fuck.
THOMAS
For six weeks, I have practically dismantled the James Foundation’s donor list trying to find the woman currently standing frozen on my imported rug.
Xavier is staring at me, his perfectly sculpted brow furrowing in a way that suggests I have approximately two seconds to recover my composure before he realizes my entire reality has just tilted on its axis.
“Apologies,” I say, my voice dropping back into the smooth, frictionless baritone that has closed millions of dollars in deals.
I set the silver carafe down on my desk before I drop the damn thing.
“You bear a striking resemblance to a . . . former associate. The trick of the morning fog caught me off guard.”
Hailey—Lucy—swallows hard. The pulse at her throat is hammering a frantic, visible rhythm against her collarbone. She looks terrified, beautiful, and completely trapped.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Canning,” she manages, her voice vibrating with a panic only I can hear.
“Thomas, please,” I reply, holding her gaze.
My mind flashes to the hours spent in my hotel suite, sweaty and tangled in the sheets, her breath hitching as she dug her nails into my shoulders, crying out while I gave her exactly what she begged for.
I force the memory down before my dick responds, locking it away behind a heavy vault of professional composure.
“Of course, Thomas,” she says, nodding politely as a flush of red creeps up her neck.
“Excellent.” Xavier checks his watch, completely oblivious to the detonation that just occurred. “I’ll leave you to it.”
As Xavier exits, the heavy frosted-glass door clicking shut behind him, the silence stretches between us—thick, pressurized, and deeply electrified. I step around the desk, the polite mask slipping just enough to let the man from the hotel room peek through.
She stands there, arms by her side, her wide brown eyes locked on mine.
For six weeks, I have thought of absolutely no one else.
She was the first woman who made me feel something—anything—since the ink dried on my divorce papers.
After Kelsie’s endless deceptions, her manipulations, and the custody nightmare that tore my life apart, the woman I knew as “Lucy” had felt like a clean slate. A breath of honest air.
Now, looking at the gleaming employee card hanging against her blazer, the truth hits me with the force of a physical blow. She lied. Just like Kelsie. A fake name, a fabricated career, a phantom identity built to entertain her for a single night before she vanished before dawn.
Some rational part of me understands that a fake name given to a stranger for one reckless night is not the same as a wife building a marriage around lies.