Chapter 26 #2
I find myself smiling too. It’s foreign, but nice, seeing them like this.
I still remember the way it was mere months ago during winter break, when Nathaniel required a tremendous amount of coaxing to agree to spend any amount of time with his parents, especially his father.
Now, the tension that once stretched between them seems to have melted into something tentative, but hopeful.
Whatever walls existed before, they seem thinner now.
When we step out onto the street after lunch, the sunlight is bright and sharp, the city alive with its usual rush. Charles’s driver pulls up to the curb, and Nathaniel’s follows close behind. There’s a brief shuffle of goodbyes—Charles returning to the office, Nathaniel promising to call later.
And then, just like that, I’m standing on the sidewalk as Nathaniel’s car pulls away.
I realize, suddenly, that this will be my first afternoon alone in New York without him. The thought makes me nervous, a flutter beneath my ribs, but also—unexpectedly—thrilled.
I turn back to where Charles waits by the curb, gesturing for me to follow. As I fall into step beside him, the city stretches ahead, all glass and promise.
For the first time, I feel like there might be a space for me here.
By Wednesday, I’ve learned which conference rooms run cold, which assistants like their coffee black, and which elevator reaches the top floor fastest if you catch it just before nine. The intimidation has worn off, replaced by an improbable sense that maybe I could belong. At least for now.
At noon, I am invited by a few of the associates to lunch—three women in their late twenties, sharp and kind in equal measure.
We walk to a salad place a few blocks away, laughing about the impossibility of keeping heels unscuffed in Manhattan. They are generous in the way people who’ve already fought their way in can be.
Each of them has a story I recognize: small towns, state schools, scholarships to Ivys. The kind of upward mobility that demands sacrifice and gives little room for error.
Over poke bowls and iced tea, they talk about the job with the casual honesty of survivors.
“The hours are brutal,” one says, “but the pay makes up for it.”
Another shrugs, saying, “You learn fast, or you drown.”
A third smiles at me and adds, “It’s worth it, though. You look back and realize you’ve built something no one can take away.”
I walk back to the office with them feeling light, a little breathless. They are women I can see myself becoming—competent, respected, belonging to a world I’ve spent years only looking into from the outside.
Back at my desk, I’m lost in a spreadsheet when my phone buzzes.
An unfamiliar number. My first instinct is to ignore it—probably spam or a recruiter—but something about the +44 country code catches my eye.
London. I hesitate, then excuse myself quietly, slipping into an empty conference room that overlooks the skyline.
“Hello?”
“Good afternoon—am I speaking with Olivia Bennett?” The voice is crisp, polished, unmistakably English.
“Yes, this is she.”
“Lovely. My name is Edith Hughes, I’m calling from Castor & Wyatt’s graduate recruitment team. I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time?”
Castor & Wyatt. The words land like dropped glass. For a moment, I can’t even breathe. “No,” I manage. “Of course not.”
“Excellent.” Her tone is bright. “I’m reaching out regarding your previous application to our Global Management Associate Program. I believe we last corresponded a while ago when you were placed on our waitlist.”
“Yes,” I say, the word feeling strange in my mouth. “I remember.”
“Well,” she continues, “I’m pleased to inform you that we’ve had a last-minute vacancy open up in our London office. One of our selected candidates has had to withdraw unexpectedly, and you’re next in line. We’d very much like to offer you the position, should you still be interested.”
I press my free hand against the glass, needing something solid. Manhattan stretches beneath me—steel and motion—and yet the world seems suddenly very far away.
“I—thank you,” I say, though it comes out weakly. “That’s…quite unexpected.”
“I understand,” she says kindly. “It is short notice, and I imagine you’ll need some time to think. You don’t have to decide right away. We can hold the offer until next week—say, the twenty-first?”
“That would be wonderful. Thank you.”
“In the meantime, I’ll be sending over a full packet by email—details about the London rotation, relocation support, and the employment terms. We want to make sure you have everything you need to make an informed decision.”
“Of course,” I murmur. My voice feels detached from me. I thank her again, take down her contact details, promise to review the packet. She’s professional, warm, and then she’s gone—the line cutting to silence.
For a long moment, I just stand there staring out at the city.
The dream that I’d quietly buried has suddenly been resurrected.
It is the opportunity I’ve been working toward since I first set foot in Halford—the brass ring everyone reached for and few ever touched.
When I was informed that I’d been waitlisted, I took it for the polite rejection it was.
A way of saying almost, but not quite. I made peace with it, told myself that my life was already taking shape in another direction.
And yet, here it is again, reaching for me.
My reflection stares back in the window—a woman who should be thrilled. And I am, somewhere beneath the shock. But threaded through the elation is something else: the awareness that this offer, this second chance, is the one thing that could change everything.