Chapter 7 Lindsay
Chapter seven
Lindsay
Evelyn gestures for me to sit in one of the leather chairs positioned across from her mahogany desk, then asks if I'd like water or coffee.
"Water," I say.
My mouth feels like I've been breathing desert air for hours.
This is the first place I've been since the lottery where no one looks at me like a walking headline waiting to happen.
No one asks what I plan to do with my money, their eyes calculating percentages they might claim. No one offers congratulations that feel more like fishing expeditions than genuine well-wishes.
It's deeply unsettling—and profoundly relieving in equal measure, like stepping out of a crowded, overheated room into cool night air.
Evelyn doesn't start with romance or compatibility questionnaires or any of the soft-focus imagery I'd half-expected.
"You've experienced a fundamental shift that most people can't begin to comprehend," she says, settling into her chair.
"Wealth at this level doesn't just change your material circumstances. It changes how you're perceived by everyone around you."
Everything she says mirrors thoughts I've been having during those long, sleepless hours on my couch at three in the morning, staring at the ceiling while my phone buzzes incessantly with messages from people I haven't heard from in months—or years.
Messages I don't want to read because I already know what they'll contain.
She explains ERS's role carefully. They're not saviors riding in to rescue wealthy clients from their isolation. Not fixers promising to solve the fundamental problems that money can't touch.
They're designers of careful, intentional frameworks.
They don't eliminate risk—that would be impossible, she explains. They design around it, creating spaces where vulnerability can exist without becoming exploitation.
"When we suggest a relationship," she says, her fingers steepled as she leans slightly forward, "we've already mapped the vulnerabilities on both sides. The pressure points. The potential fault lines. We understand what each person stands to gain and what they might lose."
It sounds practical. Necessary.
Like everything I've been trying to figure out alone, but didn't have the vocabulary and expertise to name.
Evelyn studies me for a moment, her gaze sharp but not invasive.
"Before we discuss options," she says, "there's something you should know. Someone has reached out asking to be paired with you."
She says his name without ceremony.
Arthur Dupree.
For a second, I think I misheard her. Or that she's talking about someone else. Someone who happens to share the name of my former boss. Someone impossibly distant from my current reality.
But Evelyn is watching me too closely for that to be true.
My heart stutters, then recalibrates like it’s bracing for impact.
Old memories surface uninvited—late nights at the office, quiet competence, the way he noticed things without comment. The way his voice sounded when he was focused. The exact shade of his eyes when he looked up from a report and found me standing in the doorway.
The way I noticed him without permission.
"Arthur joined ERS independently," Evelyn continues, voice even. "He did not know you had been in contact with us."
Relief mingles with something sharper, something I'm not ready to name.
"He's not looking for a romantic match," she adds. "He's looking for a partner. Someone stable. Discreet. Someone his son trusts. An equal."
She pauses.
"But I got the feeling that he's open to building a romantic relationship as well, but that would be an uphill battle."
The room feels smaller suddenly.
Or maybe it's just me, folding inward, trying to process what she's saying while my brain spins through a hundred different implications at once.
I grip the edge of the chair, grounding myself in something solid.
Of course he'd qualify as clientele. Billionaire. Single father. High exposure.
ERS makes sense for him.
What doesn't make sense in this scenario is me.
"Why would he ask for me?" I ask quietly.
The question slips out before I can stop it.
Evelyn doesn't answer immediately. She's choosing her words carefully, the same way Arthur always did when something mattered.
"He believes you're competent," she says. "And ethical. And not dazzled by money and power."
It doesn't explain the tightness in my chest or the way my pulse is racing like I've just sprinted up a flight of stairs.
"When you worked for him," Evelyn continues, "a relationship with you was not in the cards for Arthur. He thinks too black and white for that. Rules and control are how he has managed since he lost his wife. Crossing professional boundaries isn't something he allows himself to consider."
I nod slowly.
That tracks. Arthur lived by lines he wouldn't cross, rules he wouldn't bend. It was one of the things I respected about him. Even when it frustrated me.
"But now things are changing," Evelyn says. "For both of you."
I think about the resignation. About his reaction when I told him I was leaving. About how steady his voice was when he congratulated me—and how something in his eyes looked unfinished and unsaid.
Like he was fighting his own instincts.
"I don't understand what he's looking for," I admit.
My voice sounds smaller than I want it to.
Evelyn leans back slightly, giving me space to breathe.
"Arthur is practical to a fault," she says. "He sees his life as something that needs to function efficiently. For years, that's been enough. But his son is getting older. Henry needs more than structure and resources. He needs presence."
I remember Henry. The way he lit up when he talked about his game. The way he leaned toward me, unguarded.
"Arthur knows he can't be everything Henry needs," Evelyn continues. “So he’s approaching it the way he approaches everything else. Strategically.”
That sounds like Arthur.
"He asked for you specifically," Evelyn says. "Not because he wants to hire you back. But because you're the only person he's seen Henry interact with in a way that has potential for what Athur believes Henry needs."
I think about how Arthur watched us in the hallway. How he paused in the doorway of his office, expression unreadable. How he didn't interrupt.
"This isn't about convenience," Evelyn adds. "It's about trust."
Evelyn leans forward slightly.
"There's one thing I want to be very clear about," she says.
Her tone shifts. It's still calm, but weighted now with something that feels like warning and reassurance tangled together.
"Arthur did not request access to your wealth. In fact, your financial situation came up as a complication, not a benefit."
I blink, startled.
"He knows wealth comes with challenges," she continues. "He understands how to live inside that level of exposure—without losing himself to it."
I open my mouth to protest, but Evelyn raises a hand gently.
"Any financial advisor we set you up with has risks," she says. "Any investment has the potential for loss. But going in with someone who swims in that pool every day will save you a lot of headache, and is our safest suggestion."
She pauses, watching me carefully.
"I am not trying to push you into something. I'm giving you the full picture."
I stare at my hands.
Arthur isn't looking for a nanny.
He's acknowledging that he needs help, and is willing to open the door to his life. Even though it's hard.
He’s looking for someone who can exist in his life without being consumed by it.
Someone who won't need him to be different than he is.
Someone his son trusts.
My throat tightens.
"He's not asking for your money," Evelyn says quietly.
Her gaze holds mine, steady and unflinching.
"He's asking for you."