9. Helen
HELEN
The spreadsheet glows back at me from the coffee table, numbers unyielding. I’ve run them three times already. Same outcome every time.
Summit Tail rebrand launches next week. After production, post, transport, and paying Olivia’s first quarter, there’s barely anything left for my laptop upgrade. Nothing glamorous. I only need it to render without praying to the tech gods. Some expenses will be reimbursed, just not immediately.
The front door opens.
Anna’s heels click across the hardwood floor. Her coat lands over the back of a chair she never uses.
She eyes the screen. “Staring at numbers won’t make you rich.”
“I’m not trying to be rich.”
She pours herself a glass of water. “I had lunch with Victor.”
My hand pauses on the trackpad. Since the ball, Victor and I have spent time together—the occasional late coffee, phone conversations that stretch longer than either of us plans. Just not the kind of time that accounts for his “I came back for you.”
Still, I understand. He’s been busy rebuilding his company. And to his credit, he checks in. He shows up. I don’t need constant reassurance to recognize a man who follows through.
“Oh yeah, he mentioned,” I say. He didn’t. I just don’t want Anna feeling important. “How was it?”
“He has something he wants to discuss with you.”
I take my hand off the laptop. So she’s part of it now. Or he’s made her part of it. “Then he knows where to find me.”
Anna’s mouth hooks in a dry smile. “You’ve always made men work too hard.”
“And that’s a problem?”
“Your father and I had been friends for years,” she says.
Here it comes. Anna’s favorite lesson about men and the choices women should make around them.
“After your mother died, he didn’t take long to ask me. I could have made him wait, encouraged a little pursuit. But men of his stature value decisiveness. He admired that in me.”
“I’m not you, and Victor isn’t Dad.”
“No,” she says. “But your father had very high hopes for you.”
“I’m sure he didn’t mean my spouse. He would be proud of who I am now.”
She chuckles, then studies me as though she’s searching for the six-year-old she insists she inherited. “You know, your mother used to say you were relentless. You had a way of wearing people down.”
Victor used to be the neutral force when our families gathered and the conversation turned to how bratty I was, according to Anna—something she began pointing out almost immediately after she moved in.
My so-called bratty streak would inevitably circle back to Mom’s death.
I never understood why Dad stayed silent. Maybe he didn’t want to offend her.
“I feel for you, Helen,” she says. “It must be difficult, knowing what you know.”
I wasn’t old enough to remember the specifics. What I remember about my mother is her red car at the school gate. The way she’d feed me before she fed herself. The sound of her voice reading stories at night. Maybe I cried too much. Maybe I needed too much. But in my memory, it was innocent.
It doesn’t feel innocent now.
Because memory doesn’t undo the damage. If she was already fraying, then maybe I was the final pull. That thought has lived with me longer than any story.
And now that I’m an adult, Anna still hasn’t stopped.
She has no idea how close I’ve come to punching her.
But that would only confirm what she already believes about me.
To be fair, she did care for Olivia in the first few years after Mom died.
Then she immersed herself in Dad’s business.
In the end, it feels like it’s just me and Olivia.
I stand. “Say what you came here to say. Leave my mother out of it.”
Anna meets my gaze. “Not many people can tolerate you. Not for long.” She lifts her glass. “Victor understands you. He sees your edges, and he isn’t intimidated.”
Victor has never been intimidated by me. If anything, he’s always seemed amused.
“Call it what you want,” Anna continues. “He’s stable. Established. Willing.”
“Willing to what?” I ask.
“To build something permanent.”
I look back at my laptop. The highlighted number stares back at me.
Victor is thoughtful. He listens. Every so often, he nudges the subject of Liam, calling it a “handsome coincidence” and watching a fraction too closely for my reaction as if market trends apply to men as well.
But we always leave it there. That night after the ball, when that man came at me, Victor moved first without hesitation.
To be frank, his investment talk terrified me, but in so many ways, he’s the same.
Whether I am—that’s less certain.
“I like him,” I say finally.
Anna’s eyebrow lifts.
“I’ve always liked him,” I continue. “Just don’t confuse history with destiny.”
She steps closer. “You’re running out of time, Helen. Stability isn’t an insult.”
“And affection isn’t a contract.”
Silence sits between us.
“You should say yes when he asks you to dinner,” Anna says, softer now.
She keeps treating him like a solution. As though one dinner could sort out my entire life. And it’s unlike Victor to stay quiet with me. He used to fold in Anna’s presence—Yes, Mrs. Mercer. Of course, Mrs. Mercer—but that was when he was still a boy.
I turn back to my screen and close the spreadsheet. “I’m not opposed to marriage,” I say. “I’m opposed to being solved.”
Anna sighs. “They’re the same thing.”
“What Victor and I choose to do with our lives is ours to decide. His and mine. No audience.”
Dinner is Victor’s idea of thoughtful excess.
We’re in a private tatami room framed in pale cedar, with linen napkins folded into exact lines and porcelain so fine it feels almost sacred.
The room has low, legless chairs with straight backs, allowing you to sit almost at floor level in a posture halfway between traditional and modern.
The sake arrives in a polished bottle with a hand-etched label, poured with near-ceremony. I take a sip. It’s clear and cold, with a bite that makes me slow down.
“The menu feels like a dare,” I say. “Are you sure we’re at the right place?”
He breaks into a grin. “I’m always a risk taker.”
“In markets,” I say. “Not with seafood that might murder you.”
The food follows. Fugu. The slices are laid out in a chrysanthemum that spreads across the porcelain like petals. It’s prepared by someone whose credentials are recited before the plate hits the table. Even then, there’s always that slither of danger with puffer fish.
I glance at Victor, slightly surprised by the choice.
Perhaps some things do change.
Victor picks up his chopsticks first and takes a bite.
I watch him for a full second.
He swallows.
Nothing happens.
“Well,” I say, picking up my chopsticks. “Encouraging start.”
He gives me a look. “You don’t trust the chef?”
“I trust credentials,” I say, selecting a slice from the spread’s outer edge. “And I am statistically informed. I just prefer confirmation.”
“Says the woman who doesn’t trust the statistics behind Bitcoin,” he replies, folding his hands loosely. “Changed your mind yet?”
I lift one shoulder. “No.”
“Alright,” he says. “I’ll wait.”
I take a careful bite of the Fugu. It’s delicate, and understated, considering the threat attached to it.
We remain alive.
I look at him. “How’s the new venture shaping up?”
“The framework’s there,” he says. “Board seats are nearly filled. Once the funding clears, we expand.”
“Staying stateside,” I ask, “or are you still eyeing France?”
He lifts his glass. “I’m not the only New Yorker who loved Paris. Your dad never stopped talking about Neuilly-sur-Seine. That apartment got more airtime than most people.”
I smile. “He liked reminding people he’d made it.”
“He liked reminding you,” Victor corrects gently. “He took you there more than once.”
“I was too young to appreciate it properly,” I say. “Too busy being unimpressed.”
He chuckles. “You were never dazzled by money. That was obvious early.”
I didn’t see that coming, and I realize he hasn’t forgotten the way I am.
“You know, Helen? Your father was never flashy,” Victor continues, thoughtful now. “Not in Europe. He owned property, yes. Knew powerful people. But he never disappeared into it. He kept his footing.” His gaze stays on mine. “He adored you and Olivia.”
“I know.”
A quiet stretch follows, filled by the soft tap of chopsticks against ceramic.
“Have you been back recently?” he asks. “Europe, I mean. Seen your Uncle Pierre?”
“Fake Uncle Pierre,” I correct, and laugh despite myself.
Pierre D’Aboville was my father’s butler during those years he insisted on maintaining an apartment abroad.
When Olivia and I were left there with him, Pierre did his best—planned outings, elaborate breakfasts, stories in an accent meant to charm.
Olivia enjoyed it while I counted the days.
Bless Pierre, but no matter how attentive he was, I always missed home. Home was New York. Home was my mother, who more often than not chose to stay there while Dad conducted business elsewhere.
“No,” I say at last, shaking my head. “I haven’t been back. The furthest I’ve flown lately is Florida.”
“Florida, hey?”
“Work trip. PetBed wanted a coastal-chic set for their hot-climate line. Apparently summer can be aggressive.”
Victor smiles. “You and animals. You haven’t changed, Helen.”
“Jagger,” I say. “You know me. I’m going to call it, okay?”
Laughter catches awkwardly in his throat. Not the sake. Something else.
“All right. Call it.”
“Are you on a rebound?”
He laughs outright this time. “Helen, Helen, Helen,” he says. “Look, Jess and I grew apart. No drama. No villains. Just different directions. When something ends like that, there’s nothing to rebound from.”
“I see.”
“I was relieved there were no children involved,” he adds.
“And now?” I ask.
He thinks before answering. “I want a family. Properly. Three children, at least.” He looks at me. “I like the idea of noise. Continuity.”
I smile. It fits him. That certainty. And I know, with the same clarity, that I’m standing in the middle of the picture he’s describing.
So I ask the question.
“Why did you talk to Anna like you were about to propose to me?”
Victor chokes on his drink.
“Propose?” He wipes his mouth. “Helen, having lunch with Anna doesn’t qualify as intent.”
“Victor Jagger Rochemont. What did I say about cutting to the chase?”
He exhales, the air leaving him like he’s letting it out at last. “When I said I loved you years ago, I meant it. I still love you. Do you still love me?”
I look at him. The answer should be simple.
“Helen?”
“Jag. I’ve never stopped feeling something for you,” I say. “I know that much. But I don’t know what love looks like for me now.”
“Then let me show you,” Victor says. “I want to laugh with you. Get silly with you. I’ll take care of you. I promise. And Olivia. And Anna.”
“Why don’t we start with us first?” I say. “Not the promises. Just us.”
He tilts my chin up. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Let’s.”
My heart warms. I miss this sense of everything aligning, of the future opening up again.
“You sure I’m not too much?” I ask, checking he means it. “You remember the history.”
“It’s the past, Helen.”
“Mm. I’m still happiest around ferrets and unruly dogs. Given the chance, I’d probably chase a bear just to see what happens.”
He huffs a laugh. “You’ve always been like that.”
I take his hand. “Then I’m ready to start.”
“You don’t know how happy I am to hear that,” he says. “I’m in Europe next month. Come with me.”
“What is it with you and Europe?” I wrinkle my nose.
“What’s wrong with Europe?”
“It’s predictable.” I shrug. “Cobblestones. Wine. You pretending to enjoy museums.”
“You’re still bitter I left.”
“What?” I say, adjusting my folded legs. “Please. I don’t scale my bitterness geographically.”
He laughs, just a touch too loud. “Fine,” he says. “We’ll plan something else.”
“Can I be honest?”
“Always.”
“Holidaying with you scares me.”
His brows lift. “Why?”
“Because I think you might be boring.”
His jaw clenches before he smooths it over.
“Careful, Helen. I fed you fugu. That wasn’t dull.”
“Are you trying to prove something?”
He leans back, smiling assuredly at my challenge.
“Have you ever heard,” he says, his voice taking an edge, “about a game that operates in a private layer of New York?”
I blink. “That sounds like something run by the mafia.”
A corner of his mouth lifts.
“No thanks,” I add. “If that’s your idea of adventure, I’d prefer our lives boring and intact.”
“Our lives?” He catches it. “That sounds like a future.”
The point hits me before the blush does. But I keep my tone cool. “So?”
“Are you interested?” he asks.
I pause, letting the question rest between us, then say, “Why do I suddenly feel like I’m the responsible one here?”
“You are,” he says. “But you’re curious.”
I open my mouth to deny it, but he doesn’t give me the chance.
“That game is real, Helen. And it’s nothing like what you’re imagining. It’s immersive. You don’t explain it. You experience it. The moment you try to describe it, you’ve already flattened it.”
I study him. “What kind of game? Like an escape room?”
“Pfft. Escape room?” He gives me a dismissive shake of his head. “That’s for teenagers killing time. This is invitation-only. Lavish, intense, decadent. You’d love it.”
“Why?”
“Because it pushes you,” he says. “And you’ve been holding yourself back for years.”
He doesn’t get to say that. And yet.
I lift a brow. “Go on.”
A pleased smile spreads across his face. “We’ll get to know each other very well.”
Something in me stirs.
When was the last time I did anything that wasn’t weighed, budgeted, justified? I don’t regret the years spent keeping everything afloat. I’d do it again.
But I’m tired of surviving.
I want to feel.
“And you can get us in?” I ask.
Victor doesn’t answer. He gives me a look that says he already has.
Oh God. He means it.