Chapter 5
Lucas
The thing about lines is that you never notice when you cross them. You just keep moving, one small compromise at a time, until you look up and the horizon is gone.
Victoria and I started talking more, mostly after meetings, sometimes during the drives back from off-site negotiations.
We traded war stories—bad bosses, impossible deadlines, the secret perverse joy of seeing someone implode under pressure.
She had a vicious sense of humor, and she didn’t bother pretending she was above the politics.
I liked that about her: the unfiltered ambition, the refusal to wrap herself in false humility.
At first, it was just office talk. Then it became life talk.
She told me about her ex-husband, the things she missed about London, the way American coffee was inferior but she drank it anyway.
I told her about Bella, the pregnancy, the helplessness of being the one expected to save everyone and failing every time.
“You’re not failing,” Victoria said, eyes trained on the road. “You’re just human.”
I almost told her that being human wasn’t the Ashford way, but it sounded pathetic, so I swallowed it.
The messages started late one night, after a disastrous call with the legal team. I sent her a question about the draft. She replied instantly: “You never sleep, do you?”
I wrote back: “Not when I have to fix other people’s messes.”
She: “That’s the job description. Want to trade lives?”
Me: “Only if I get your coffee perks.”
Her reply: “I’ll think about it.”
After that, it became a ritual—quick check-ins, then longer threads about clients, then stories about our day, about our old lives, about what we wished we’d done differently.
We never talked about attraction or sex or anything physical.
That was how I justified it to myself: it wasn’t an affair if nothing crossed the threshold of touch.
At home, Bella noticed the phone always in my hand. At dinner, she caught me glancing at it, waiting for the next buzz.
“You working late again?” she asked, spearing a bite of chicken.
“Yeah,” I said. “Victoria’s on a deadline.”
Bella considered this, then nodded. “You don’t have to do everything yourself, Lucas.”
“It’s only for a few more weeks. The expansion will be over soon.”
She reached for my hand, her palm cool and soft. “Just promise you’ll tell me if it’s too much.”
I squeezed her fingers, wishing I could say the truth: It already is.
Later, while she slept, I sat in the hallway, replying to Victoria’s messages.
I told myself it was harmless, that she was just a colleague, that this was the modern way of working—lines blurred, boundaries set to “permanent gray.” But I felt the electric anticipation every time my phone vibrated.
I caught myself composing drafts in my head before I typed them.
The next week, after a brutal board meeting, Hunter pulled me aside in the corridor. His voice was low, but the edge was sharp.
“I saw you and Sinclair laughing after the meeting,” he said.
“Yeah?”
He folded his arms. “You know how it starts, right? You give someone the pieces you should keep for your wife.”
I bristled. “It’s not like that.”
He nodded, but his eyes stayed on me. “Neither was it with me and Olivia. At first.”
He left before I could answer, his warning pulsing in my ears.
That night, I lay in bed next to Bella, her hand resting on her stomach, and wondered how I’d gotten here—how I was both the hero and the villain in my own story.
When Victoria messaged—Just sent you the revised budget, thanks for the heads up—I stared at the screen for a long time before deleting the conversation. I climbed into bed beside my wife, phone on silent, and stared at the ceiling, measuring the distance between us in heartbeats.
I told myself I’d never cross the next line. But I’d stopped believing my own promises.