Chapter 5 #2
The meeting is efficient. The developers are smart, their proposal solid, their financial projections realistic.
We discuss zoning challenges and community pushback and timeline expectations.
I ask pointed questions that reveal I've done my homework.
They provide answers that suggest they've done theirs.
It's all very professional. Very transactional.
I approve a feasibility study and a preliminary investment, shake hands, and promise to be in touch.
They leave looking pleased.
That hollow feeling returns immediately.
What am I doing?
The question rises unbidden, unwelcome. I've built an empire. I employ hundreds of people. I've transformed neighborhoods and skylines, created housing and commerce and spaces where people live their lives. My work matters.
But standing here, looking out at the city I've helped shape, I can't shake the feeling that I'm just moving pieces around a board.
My phone buzzes.
For one irrational moment, I think it might be her. That she's texted to say she's been thinking too, that maybe we should talk, that maybe Florence wasn't a mistake after all.
It's not her.
Victoria: The mayor is more likely to approve your permits if you show civic interest. How about funding my arts initiative?
I stare at the message, my jaw tight.
This. This is what my marriage was. Victoria managing my public image, coaching me on how to perform civic duty convincingly enough to grease political wheels. Every dinner a negotiation. Every charitable donation a strategic investment.
She's not even my wife anymore, and she's still trying to direct my life like a performance she's producing.
I delete the message without responding.
Then I pull up Emma's contact and I start typing.
Me: I know you need space. And that this is complicated. But I miss talking to you.
My thumb hovers over send.
This is a bad idea. She's made herself clear. Pushing harder will only drive her further away.
But I send the message anyway.
Then I wait, staring at my phone like a teenager waiting for his crush to respond.
The three dots appear.
My heart actually speeds up.
The dots disappear.
Reappear.
Disappear again.
Then, finally, a message comes through.
Emma: I miss talking to you too.
Four words. That's all. But they hit me with the force of a physical blow. I immediately heart her text.
She misses me.
Not just the sex—though God knows I haven't stopped thinking about that either. But talking. The conversation. The connection.
She felt it too.
I fight every urge to continue the conversation, ask if I can see her.
I set the phone down instead and force myself to return to work. I have contracts to review, emails to answer, a dinner with a councilman where I'll need to charm and negotiate and pretend that trading political favors is a meaningful use of my evening.
But my mind is elsewhere.
With a twenty-four-year-old woman who tastes like heaven and has dreams I have no business being part of.
A woman I can't stop thinking about, no matter how hard I try.
My phone buzzes again. Another text.
I grab it too quickly, my chest tight with hope.
It's Samantha.
Samantha: Mom says you had dinner with some woman in Florence.
The words land like a punch.
Victoria knows about Emma.
How the hell does Victoria know about Emma?
I think back to Florence, trying to remember if I saw anyone we both know. I’m almost positive I didn’t, but someone must have seen me. And Emma.
Jesus Christ.
If Victoria knows, she'll use it. That's what she does. She collects information and deploys it strategically, always at the moment it will cause maximum damage.
And if she tells David—
My stomach drops.
David Sullivan has been my best friend for over twenty years. We met in college, built our early careers together, stood up at each other's weddings. He's one of the few people I actually trust, and that trust is built on two decades of loyalty and honesty.
I slept with his daughter.
His twenty-four-year-old daughter, who he already worries about, who he's already controlling and protective of in ways that drive her crazy.
If he finds out, our friendship is over. This would be the ultimate betrayal.
I close my eyes and lean back in my chair.
What the hell have I done?
I should’ve known better.
And now Victoria knows.
Which means it's only a matter of time before David knows.
I need to tell him first. Need to control the narrative before Victoria twists it into something sordid. She's already poisoned Samantha against me; I can't let her destroy my friendship with David too.
But what do I say?
Hey, David. So, I slept with Emma in Florence. But don't worry, she left the next morning before I got up, so it's all okay.
That'll go over well.
My phone buzzes.
Emma: Are you okay?
The question catches me off guard. I look at the message, trying to figure out why she's asking.
Then I realize—I told her I was here. That I'd give her space but I was here when she was ready. And then I went silent for fifteen minutes.
She noticed.
Me: Yeah. Just… complicated day.
Emma: I know the feeling.
Me: I really do want to talk to you. When you're ready.
Emma: I know. And I want to talk to you too. I just need to figure some things out first.
Me: Take your time. I'm not going anywhere.
Even as I type it, I wonder if it's true. Because Victoria knows about Emma. Which means everything is about to get exponentially more complicated.
My assistant's voice comes through the intercom again. "Mr. Cross, your car is here for the councilman dinner."
I check my watch. Already six-fifteen. Time to put on the performance. Smile and pretend like my entire life isn't unraveling behind the scenes.
"I'll be right down."
I stand, straightening my jacket again, and catch my reflection in the window. I look the same as always. Expensive suit, confident posture, the kind of presence that commands respect in any room.
Inside, I feel like I'm falling apart.
I grab my phone and wallet, heading for the elevator.
As the doors close, I look at Emma's last messages one more time.
She wants to talk to me too.
It's not much. But right now, it feels like everything.
The elevator descends, and I watch the floor numbers tick down.
Returning to ground level.
Returning to reality.
Where I'm a divorced billionaire with a bitter ex-wife, an angry daughter, and a best friend I've betrayed.
Where the only thing I actually want is the one thing I can't have.
My phone buzzes one more time as I reach the lobby.
Samantha: Also, I need money for spring break. Mom says you’re paying.
I close my eyes and count to ten again.
Then I transfer five thousand dollars to her account, because it's easier than fighting.
Because everything in my life is a transaction.
Except Emma.
The car is waiting outside, and I slide into the back seat, my mind already on the dinner ahead. The councilman will want to talk about permits and zoning variances and community impact assessments. I'll want to talk about timeline and costs and return on investment.
We'll both pretend we're serving the public good while actually serving ourselves.
I look out the window as the car pulls into traffic, and I think about Emma in her apartment, surrounded by bottles of essential oils and dreams she's determined to build on her own. And I wonder when I’ll see her again.