Barrett’s POVI opened my mouth to decline, but my stomach betrayed me with a traitorous growl. Tom chuckled and patted his own gut."I haven’t eaten breakfast," he admitted sheepishly. "Wouldn’t say no to something light.""Then it’s settled," Emily said with a delighted nod. "Come inside. I’ll whip something up quickly before the restaurant opens."Inside, the space was warm and inviting. Clean wood, exposed brick, and the scent of cinnamon and espresso hung in the air. She led us to a corner booth and told us to make ourselves comfortable before disappearing behind the kitchen doors.I leaned back against the leather banquette and glanced around, noting the framed photos, handwritten menus, and stacks of mismatched ceramic cups. It had charm. Real charm. Not that fabricated kind the decorators installed into million-dollar spaces with rustic beams from fake barns in Vermont.A few minutes later, Emily returned carrying two plates and two steaming mugs of coffee."Spinach, egg, and
Barrett’s POVTom turned the wheel smoothly, his gloved hands steady on the leather steering wheel as the car pulled up in front of Emily’s restaurant. The warm amber glow of the morning sun bathed the little bistro’s façade, catching the edge of its elegant signage and making the gold lettering sparkle. It was half-past ten, a peaceful hour before the doors opened to the bustle of brunch service. I reached for my phone, preparing to dial Emily and let her know we had arrived, when the front door of the restaurant swung open.There she was. Bright-eyed and graceful, waving as she stepped into the sun with a smile that could make a bitter man sweet. I rolled down the window and gave her a gentleman’s wave, the kind I had perfected over the decades. There was charm in that wave, intention too. I always made a show of things. She crossed the sidewalk quickly, her steps light and full of purpose, and Tom, ever the reliable footman, was already out of the car and opening the door before sh
Barrett’s POVThe afternoon light filtered in through the tall windows of Emily’s restaurant, casting a soft golden hue across the crisp white tablecloth and delicately arranged tea set before me. I leaned back slightly in my chair, cigar long extinguished, the aroma of fresh herbs and warm fruit filling the air. Emily moved with the grace of a dancer, placing platters of vibrant foods before Tom and me, her smile glowing with sincerity and quiet confidence. It was a different kind of strength than I was used to — not forged in boardrooms or battles, but grown in the soft, persistent soil of daily intention and care. A strength you could eat, I thought, marveling at the spread before us.“I wanted to do something special,” she said as she settled into the chair across from me. “This is part of something I’ve been dreaming up — a lifestyle brand built around nutrition, mindfulness, and family. Something real. I’ve spent so long building something for myself, and now… I want to build so
Emily’s POVThe smell of garlic, rosemary, and lemon zest lingered in the air as I stirred the sauce gently in the pan, the soft clink of the wooden spoon against metal filling the silence between bursts of laughter. Damian sat on a stool near the island, slicing up bright heirloom tomatoes for the salad, his sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted with a trace of sea salt. There was something sweetly ridiculous about how domestic we’d become. Just last week I was navigating legal documents and emotionally charged confrontations, and now, I was arguing with this man—this impossibly handsome, frustrating, tender man—about how thick tomato slices should be.“Thicker, Damian. They fall apart when they’re paper-thin. What is this, a salad or carpaccio?” I teased, shaking my head.He looked up at me with mock offense, eyes sparkling with humor. “Excuse you, this is art. Not everything needs to be manhandled into submission.”I flicked a little water at him from the edge of my fingers and he gas
Emily’s POVThe house was silent, that comforting kind of quiet that settles just before twilight. I had dimmed the lights in the kitchen and lit the candles I kept tucked away for special occasions, letting them cast soft, flickering shadows across the table. The scent of roasted garlic, sun-dried tomatoes, and fresh basil danced through the air, blending with the heady sweetness of the vanilla candle near the door. Damian had texted me an hour ago to say he was finally headed home after a brutal day at the hospital. I could almost hear the exhaustion in his message.He had been working late all week, dealing with a string of emergency surgeries and difficult patients. I had seen it in the shadows under his eyes and the way his voice sometimes trailed off mid-thought. I hated seeing him that way. So tonight, I decided, was just for him.The table was set with our mismatched plates and the fancy cloth napkins we never used. A bottle of Chianti stood like a soldier at attention beside
Barrett’s POVThe morning sun filtered through the heavy drapes of my suite, casting golden beams over the thick Persian rugs and polished mahogany furniture. I had just finished a satisfying breakfast of poached eggs, grilled asparagus, and a piece of toast slathered with just enough marmalade to remind me of Madelin’s old habit of sneaking sugar into everything. I was reclined in my massage chair, the mechanical hum of the rollers easing into my lower back as I sipped a small glass of tomato juice. My slippers were warm, my robe wrapped perfectly around me, and for a brief, fleeting moment, I allowed myself the luxury of peace.Then came the knock.It was not sharp or aggressive, but steady, insistent. I assumed it was Becky, my nurse, coming to check my vitals and shuffle me off to the pool where I would wade like a disoriented walrus through lukewarm water in the name of cardio. I did not mind. At my age, movement was a celebration, not a punishment.“Come in,” I called, not turni
Barrett’s POVThe next morning, I sat in my leather recliner, nursing a secund cup of black coffee, and staring out over the manicured estate. Thoughts of the approaching date churned in my mind, and I found myself… restless. Seventy. The big seven-zero. The number itself tasted both bitter and regal on my tongue. I had not planned to celebrate, not publicly anyway. But as the morning wore on, I began to feel something stir in my chest. A small fire. A whisper of sentimentality. Perhaps, I thought, a modest gathering with those closest to me would not be entirely foolish.I reached for the landline beside me, its polished brass and ivory buttons still more satisfying than any of these cursed smartphones. I dialed Charles’ office number and waited.“Father,” Charles answered, his voice clipped, professional. Always the executive, even for me.“I hope I’m not interrupting your hostile takeover of a rival firm,” I said, smirking to myself.“You’re lucky I find your sarcasm charming, Fath
Emily's POVI was packing my husband's suitcase and found a box of used condoms in the pocket.I open the box and find only four condoms even though the box says it's a pack of six. A wave of nausea washes over me as I sink onto the floor in disbelief - I'm afraid of what this means. Ten years of good, solid marriage. We’d gotten comfortable, perhaps too comfortable, but still, I thought we had true love. Louis wouldn’t throw it all away on some random business trip, right?“Babe? I’m home!” Louis’ voice rang through the house, smooth and confident, like it always did. I shoved the box back into the suitcase pocket with shaking hands, snapped the zipper shut, and forced myself to stand.I met him in the foyer, where he dropped his briefcase and smiled, that wide, boyish grin that once made me weak in the knees. “Hey, there’s my girl.” He pulled me into his arms, and I stiffened before I could stop myself. His cologne, the one I’d picked for him years ago, smelled cloying now—familiar
Barrett’s POVThe next morning, I sat in my leather recliner, nursing a secund cup of black coffee, and staring out over the manicured estate. Thoughts of the approaching date churned in my mind, and I found myself… restless. Seventy. The big seven-zero. The number itself tasted both bitter and regal on my tongue. I had not planned to celebrate, not publicly anyway. But as the morning wore on, I began to feel something stir in my chest. A small fire. A whisper of sentimentality. Perhaps, I thought, a modest gathering with those closest to me would not be entirely foolish.I reached for the landline beside me, its polished brass and ivory buttons still more satisfying than any of these cursed smartphones. I dialed Charles’ office number and waited.“Father,” Charles answered, his voice clipped, professional. Always the executive, even for me.“I hope I’m not interrupting your hostile takeover of a rival firm,” I said, smirking to myself.“You’re lucky I find your sarcasm charming, Fath
Barrett’s POVThe morning sun filtered through the heavy drapes of my suite, casting golden beams over the thick Persian rugs and polished mahogany furniture. I had just finished a satisfying breakfast of poached eggs, grilled asparagus, and a piece of toast slathered with just enough marmalade to remind me of Madelin’s old habit of sneaking sugar into everything. I was reclined in my massage chair, the mechanical hum of the rollers easing into my lower back as I sipped a small glass of tomato juice. My slippers were warm, my robe wrapped perfectly around me, and for a brief, fleeting moment, I allowed myself the luxury of peace.Then came the knock.It was not sharp or aggressive, but steady, insistent. I assumed it was Becky, my nurse, coming to check my vitals and shuffle me off to the pool where I would wade like a disoriented walrus through lukewarm water in the name of cardio. I did not mind. At my age, movement was a celebration, not a punishment.“Come in,” I called, not turni
Emily’s POVThe house was silent, that comforting kind of quiet that settles just before twilight. I had dimmed the lights in the kitchen and lit the candles I kept tucked away for special occasions, letting them cast soft, flickering shadows across the table. The scent of roasted garlic, sun-dried tomatoes, and fresh basil danced through the air, blending with the heady sweetness of the vanilla candle near the door. Damian had texted me an hour ago to say he was finally headed home after a brutal day at the hospital. I could almost hear the exhaustion in his message.He had been working late all week, dealing with a string of emergency surgeries and difficult patients. I had seen it in the shadows under his eyes and the way his voice sometimes trailed off mid-thought. I hated seeing him that way. So tonight, I decided, was just for him.The table was set with our mismatched plates and the fancy cloth napkins we never used. A bottle of Chianti stood like a soldier at attention beside
Emily’s POVThe smell of garlic, rosemary, and lemon zest lingered in the air as I stirred the sauce gently in the pan, the soft clink of the wooden spoon against metal filling the silence between bursts of laughter. Damian sat on a stool near the island, slicing up bright heirloom tomatoes for the salad, his sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted with a trace of sea salt. There was something sweetly ridiculous about how domestic we’d become. Just last week I was navigating legal documents and emotionally charged confrontations, and now, I was arguing with this man—this impossibly handsome, frustrating, tender man—about how thick tomato slices should be.“Thicker, Damian. They fall apart when they’re paper-thin. What is this, a salad or carpaccio?” I teased, shaking my head.He looked up at me with mock offense, eyes sparkling with humor. “Excuse you, this is art. Not everything needs to be manhandled into submission.”I flicked a little water at him from the edge of my fingers and he gas
Barrett’s POVThe afternoon light filtered in through the tall windows of Emily’s restaurant, casting a soft golden hue across the crisp white tablecloth and delicately arranged tea set before me. I leaned back slightly in my chair, cigar long extinguished, the aroma of fresh herbs and warm fruit filling the air. Emily moved with the grace of a dancer, placing platters of vibrant foods before Tom and me, her smile glowing with sincerity and quiet confidence. It was a different kind of strength than I was used to — not forged in boardrooms or battles, but grown in the soft, persistent soil of daily intention and care. A strength you could eat, I thought, marveling at the spread before us.“I wanted to do something special,” she said as she settled into the chair across from me. “This is part of something I’ve been dreaming up — a lifestyle brand built around nutrition, mindfulness, and family. Something real. I’ve spent so long building something for myself, and now… I want to build so
Barrett’s POVTom turned the wheel smoothly, his gloved hands steady on the leather steering wheel as the car pulled up in front of Emily’s restaurant. The warm amber glow of the morning sun bathed the little bistro’s façade, catching the edge of its elegant signage and making the gold lettering sparkle. It was half-past ten, a peaceful hour before the doors opened to the bustle of brunch service. I reached for my phone, preparing to dial Emily and let her know we had arrived, when the front door of the restaurant swung open.There she was. Bright-eyed and graceful, waving as she stepped into the sun with a smile that could make a bitter man sweet. I rolled down the window and gave her a gentleman’s wave, the kind I had perfected over the decades. There was charm in that wave, intention too. I always made a show of things. She crossed the sidewalk quickly, her steps light and full of purpose, and Tom, ever the reliable footman, was already out of the car and opening the door before sh
Barrett’s POVI opened my mouth to decline, but my stomach betrayed me with a traitorous growl. Tom chuckled and patted his own gut."I haven’t eaten breakfast," he admitted sheepishly. "Wouldn’t say no to something light.""Then it’s settled," Emily said with a delighted nod. "Come inside. I’ll whip something up quickly before the restaurant opens."Inside, the space was warm and inviting. Clean wood, exposed brick, and the scent of cinnamon and espresso hung in the air. She led us to a corner booth and told us to make ourselves comfortable before disappearing behind the kitchen doors.I leaned back against the leather banquette and glanced around, noting the framed photos, handwritten menus, and stacks of mismatched ceramic cups. It had charm. Real charm. Not that fabricated kind the decorators installed into million-dollar spaces with rustic beams from fake barns in Vermont.A few minutes later, Emily returned carrying two plates and two steaming mugs of coffee."Spinach, egg, and
Barrett’s POVOnce they were gone, I called Tom, who had wisely waited downstairs in the car, no doubt reading the paper or texting his wife about what groceries to pick up on the way home.“Tom,” I said, “it’s time. We’re going to Emily’s restaurant to pick her up.”He chuckled on the other end. “That was quick, sir. Thought you’d be stuck there all afternoon.”“It does not take long to make people uneasy,” I said with a laugh, lighting one final cigar before snuffing it out prematurely. “Sometimes all you have to do is show up.”I stepped out from my office and walked through the executive corridor with purpose, nodding politely at those who dared look me in the eye. I was not a ghost of the past. I was still the storm that shook the windows. I took the elevator back down, passing floor after floor of carefully polished egos and glass walls, watching my reflection in the silver doors. There he was—Barrett Augustus, still in control, still calling the shots.The lobby greeted me with
Barrett’s POVThe phone call had gone better than expected. Emily had answered after three rings, her voice a delicate mix of confusion and caution, but the moment she realized it was me—Barrett Augustus—her tone shifted to something more respectful. I could hear the hesitation behind her words, the hesitation of a woman who had been burned too many times, who had learned the hard way that even well-dressed men with deep pockets carried knives behind their backs. But I was not calling to hurt her. No, I had far more interesting things in mind.I told her I wanted to take her somewhere important, somewhere that mattered to me, and she agreed without pressing too much. That pleased me. A young woman with enough intuition to know when not to push an old lion too hard. She insisted, however, that once our little errand was over, I would join her at her restaurant for tea and pastries. Tea and pastries. The very idea of it made me laugh, but there was something endearing about her. She did