Chapter 5 Lindsay
Chapter five
Lindsay
Istare at the card longer than I mean to.
It’s been stuffed in my purse for days.
Back at my favorite coffee shop, I find myself holding it again.
Elite Relationship Solutions.
Clean font. Heavy stock. Nothing flashy, no embossed gold or unnecessary flourishes. It doesn't promise miracles or transformation.
It just exists, waiting to be picked up or forgotten—useful only if someone decides they need it.
My coffee’s gone cold on the table beside me, untouched for longer than I care to admit.
Outside, the café continues its rhythm—cups clinking, conversations overlapping, the door opening and closing with mechanical regularity. Inside my head, everything is crowded.
I turn the card over in my fingers, feeling the weight of it.
***
By the time I get home, my shoulders are up around my ears.
Every sound registers as a possible threat. The elevator groaning down the hall. Footsteps echoing on the floor above. A car door slamming on the street below my window.
I tell myself I'm being dramatic.
But the feeling doesn't fade.
I lock my door, check it twice, then move to the window and pull the curtains closed even though it's barely evening. The city lights bleed through the edges anyway, too bright, too exposing.
My phone sits face-down on the counter where I left it.
Forty-three notifications, now building in a tsunami of overwhelm. I don't know what to do with these people and what they want from me.
I don't open any of them.
Instead, I think about the man with the business card outside my building. About the friend requests from people I haven't spoken to since high school. About the distant cousin who suddenly remembered my name and my address and my entire existence.
Everyone has opinions on what I should do next. How I can be useful to them.
Everyone has advice.
Nobody has asked me what I actually need.
I pick up Evelyn's card again, running my thumb over the raised text.
My chest feels tight.
I don't want advice. I don't want congratulations.
I don’t want to be treated like a magic ticket everyone wants to cash in.
I want something solid.
Something that doesn't want a piece of me in return.
I pick up my phone and dial the number on the card before I can talk myself out of it.
They answer on the second ring.
The woman on the line sounds calm—warm, but not overly familiar. Professional without being cold.
"Elite Relationship Solutions. This is Tessa."
I swallow hard, suddenly unsure what I'm supposed to say.
"Hi. Um. My name is Lindsay Smith. Evelyn Sterling gave me this number."
"Of course," Tessa says smoothly, "I'm glad you called. How are you feeling?"
"Overwhelmed," I admit, gripping the phone tighter. "I'm not sure what I'm looking for. I just know I can't do this alone."
"That's usually where we start," Tessa says gently.
She doesn't sound surprised. She doesn't sound like she's waiting for me to perform gratitude or excitement or clarity I don't have yet.
She just sounds steady.
Tessa explains the process in steps—intake, assessment, options. Nothing is framed as obligation. Nothing is rushed. She talks about confidentiality like it's sacred, about boundaries like they're built into the foundation.
I keep waiting for the pitch. The upsell. The moment this turns into something I regret.
It never does.
"We work with clients whose lives don't fit into conventional frameworks," Tessa says. "People who need structure that adapts to complexity instead of it railroading thier lives."
I exhale slowly.
"That sounds… really good, actually."
"Would you like to move forward?" Tessa asks. Her tone makes it clear that no is an acceptable answer.
I close my eyes.
"Yes."
Their email arrives before I even set my phone down.
I open it immediately, curiosity outweighing caution, and start scrolling.
Elite Relationship Solutions: Client Intake Questionnaire
The first section is straightforward. Demographics. Location. Lifestyle preferences.
Public visibility tolerance. I pause on that one, then check the box marked low to moderate.
The next section asks about my day-to-day life.
The cursor blinks patiently, while I try to wrap my head around questions like: What does stability look like? What causes you undue stress?
I type slowly at first, then faster as the answers start flowing. If I stop, I might lose the nerve to be honest.
I need people I can trust. I need space that doesn't make me feel like I'm a target. I need someone who understands that money doesn't fix everything.
My fingers hesitate over the keys.
I need to not be alone in this.
I delete it. Then type it again.
I leave it this time and keep scrolling.
The next section makes me pause.
Romantic Partnership Assessment
Questions about attraction. About what my standards are for a partner. What I refuse to compromise on. Whether I'm open to introductions.
I laugh under my breath, a little startled.
I expected contracts and clauses and financial advisors in expensive suits.
This looks suspiciously like a dating profile.
My stomach dips, like I missed a step.
I hover over the skip button.
The idea of adding a boyfriend—especially a rich one—to my current list of problems feels absurd. What could someone like that possibly do for me now?
Still.
My fingers don't move away from the keyboard.
Instead, I scroll back up and start reading the questions more carefully.
What matters most to you in a partnership?
I chew my lip, then type.
Trust. Competence. Someone who doesn't need me to prove my worth. Someone who gets that relationships are about showing up, not just saying the right things.
What do you feel that you bring to a partnership?
I stare at the blinking cursor for a long moment, my fingers hovering like they’re waiting for permission.
I'm good at reading people. I'm organized. I care about things deeply, even when I probably shouldn't. I don't give up easily. I'm the person people rely on when something needs to be handled.
My throat tightens.
I want to be chosen for who I am.
Not because I’m useful, reliable, or easy to keep.
The next question asks about deal-breakers.
Dishonesty. People who think money equals power over other people. Anyone who makes me feel like I'm a problem to be managed instead of a person to be known.
I keep going.
Physical preferences. Lifestyle compatibility. Whether I want kids someday—maybe, but not immediately—and whether I'm open to someone who already has them.
I pause on that one.
Arthur's face flashes in my mind. Then Henry's.
I check yes.
By the time I reach the last question 'what are you looking for in a partner', my chest feels tight in a way that has nothing to do with fear.
I save the file without answering the last question. Without sending it yet.
***
Night settles in while I'm still sitting there, laptop open, survey nearly done.
The city lights outside my window feel too bright. Too exposing.
I get up and double-check the locks.
Then check them again.
My phone buzzes with another message I don't open.
Instead, I sit back down at my laptop and reread what I've written.
The answers feel raw. Honest in a way I haven't been with anyone—including myself—in a long time.
I think about Arthur.
About the way he looked at me when I handed him my resignation. Like he wanted to say something but couldn't figure out how to phrase it.
I shake my head, forcing the thought away.
Arthur Dupree doesn't need a lottery-winning ex-assistant complicating his life. He needs someone polished and effortless, someone who already knows how to navigate his world without tripping over the rules. Someone who adds value without needing reassurance in return.
Someone who isn't me.
Still.
The questions sit there on the screen, unanswered but insistent.
What are you looking for in a partner?
I close my eyes.
Someone steady. Someone who doesn't panic under pressure. Someone who sees me as an equal, not a project.
Someone I already know I can trust.
I type it before I can stop myself, then stare at the words like they belong to someone else.
A handsome, rich boyfriend wouldn't fix this.
I know that.
Money already proved it can't buy peace. Can't stop the notifications or the strangers with business cards or the creeping feeling that my apartment isn't safe anymore.
But.
My apartment does feel smaller than it did yesterday.
Less like shelter.
More like a place someone could find me.
I look back at the survey—at questions I didn't expect to answer and answers I didn't expect to give.
My palms are damp, and I wipe them against my jeans.
My cursor hovers over the send button.
Heart pounding.
I don't know what comes next.
I just know I can't do this alone.
I hit send.