The hearty sound of laughter spilled out from inside my own house. It was warm, carefree, and completely foreign. I stood frozen in the foyer, the cold draft from the open door biting at my heels.

I reached for Jason, desperate for some anchor, but he jerked away from my touch almost instantly.

He stepped back as if my presence itself was a physical inconvenience, an obstacle in the way of his perfect night.

My breath hitched sharply. The festive lights blurred through the sudden sting of tears I refused to let fall.

“Jason?” My voice came out smaller than I wanted.

“You didn’t remember?”

You mean you forgot tonight was your mother's birthday?

The question hung between us, heavy and painful.

My heart twisted violently.

“Was that why you sent Mummy away? For Monica?” I whispered.

*Please say no. Please tell me she just stopped by unexpectedly. Please tell me this wasn’t a calculated move.*

“Yes!” he all but roared, his small face flushed with a frustration that made him look like a stranger.

“I know you don’t like her, that’s why I wanted you away from the house! So we could have a nice dinner without you ruining it!”

I blinked, stunned into a hollow silence. My own son had deliberately kicked me out of my home on my birthday to make room for his father’s ex-girlfriend.

Why couldn't you just stay away like I asked?" looking at me crossly.

​The air left my lungs. I looked past him through the transparent large glasses and watched as Malcom raised a glass of champagne to Monica.

They looked like a portrait of a perfect family. And I was just the intruder standing in the hallway, clutching a coat I had no place to hang.

Before I could respond, Malcom raised his head and seemed to finally spot us.

He appeared in the doorway holding a glass of wine, looking annoyingly relaxed.

"Dad, mom's here." he said pointedly.

Monica stood just behind him, elegant even in casual clothes a soft cream sweater and perfectly fitted jeans that made her look effortlessly beautiful. Her hair fell in loose, glossy waves, shimmering under the warm chandelier light.

She was stunning in that natural, untouched way I could never quite achieve anymore.

“Emily, you’re here,” Malcom said, as if only just

registering my existence.

Monica offered a polite, practiced smile.

“Emily,” she said softly, her tone borderline pitying. “I didn’t know you’d be back so soon.”

*So soon.* As if she were the hostess and I was a guest who had arrived before the party was ready.

As if this was her sanctuary. My throat closed up, the air in the foyer suddenly feeling too thin to breathe.

"You guys are having dinner." I whispered.

Malcom finally looked at me.

“She was feeling a little down,” Malcom continued casually, gesturing toward Monica with his wine glass.

“Jason said a nice family-style dinner would cheer her up. She’s always wanted something like this, you know? Especially since her family isn’t here right now.”

“Yes!” Jason chimed in eagerly, looking up at Monica with a raw, open adoration that I hadn't seen in years. “And I helped plan everything! I picked the flowers and the music!”

"You did, didn't you." I whispered while I nodded softly, swallowing the bitter, metallic lump in my throat.

No one seemed to remember what day it was.

They just had to have a heartwarming dinner for Monica tonight.

The perfect family dinner in my home, at my table, with my husband and my son arranged for the woman who should have been a distant memory.

“Oh, I hope you don’t mind me being here,” Monica said sweetly, giving me a gentle smile that somehow made the betrayal feel sharper. She looked radiant. Even without trying, she glowed with the kind of confidence and grace that came from never being told she wasn't enough.

I suddenly became painfully aware of my own appearance, the dress I had carefully chosen this morning, the time I’d spent on my hair and makeup.

It all felt loud and desperate next to her effortless appeal. I found myself unconsciously straightening my posture, tugging at the hem of my dress.

“We’re about to have dinner,” Malcom said, checking his watch. “You should join us.”

Jason let out a loud, annoyed huff, clearly disappointed that I hadn’t taken the hint to disappear into the night again.

He didn’t want me there. Neither of them did. I was the dark cloud on their sunny parade.

I forced an uneasy smile, even though my stomach was hollow with a hunger that had nothing to do with food. “No, thank you. I’m… not very hungry.”

I hadn't eaten all day, trying to save my appetite for the special dinner I thought we were having. But right now, the very thought of food made me feel sick.

Malcom shrugged, already turning back toward the dining room. “You're already here. You should just join,” he muttered, his tone making it clear it was an obligation, not an invitation.

“Yes,” Monica insisted, her hand lightly touching Malcom’s arm in a gesture of such casual intimacy it felt like a slap. “Please, Emily. Stay.”

Being holed up in my room would send a bad message to our guest. It would make me look bitter, jealous, and small, exactly what they already thought of me.

If I went upstairs, I was the "difficult" wife.

I took a deep breath, smoothing my dress one last time.

“Fine,” I whispered.

​“I’ll just go freshen up,” I murmured, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. “Just give me a minute, please.”

I walked past them up the stairs, my hand gripping the railing for support. Each step felt heavier than the last. When I reached our bedroom, I closed the door behind me and leaned against it for a long moment, eyes closed, trying to gather the scattered pieces of myself.

Malcom and Jason had made this woman dinner.

I couldn’t remember the last time Malcom had cooked for me. Not once since my pregnancy, when he had been attentive and almost tender.

Those days felt like they belonged to another lifetime.

Now, he was downstairs playing happy family with Monica, laughing with her, letting our son adore her while I sat up here trying not to fall apart on my own birthday.

I moved to the mirror and stared at my reflection. My eyes were slightly red, but I dabbed them carefully and touched up my makeup.

I smoothed down my dress and ran a brush through my hair, even though part of me wondered why I was still trying. I straightened my shoulders and lifted my chin, refusing to look as broken as I felt.

As I descended the stairs a few minutes later, their voices drifted up from the kitchen, warm and carefree.

“Why can’t you be my mummy?” Jason asked, his tone filled with innocent hope.

"Jason." Malcom cautions.

Oh, Jason… I whispered inwardly, my heart clenching painfully.

Monica’s hearty laughter floated through the air warm, melodic, and excruciating to hear.

“But why not? I mean Steve has two mummies,” Jason insisted.

"And no, they're not a couple. So why can't I have two?"

I knew exactly who he was talking about, a classmate whose parents had divorced and whose father had remarried . Jason speaks about it like it’s a dream, a goal to be reached.

​I remember his words from the foyer just minutes ago: Why couldn't you just stay away like I asked?

I wish you were my mummy,” Jason mutters, his voice dropping to a confidential whisper.

My hands trembled on the banister as I froze mid-step.

“You’re nice and pretty, and you make the best food. And you’re so funny, too. You don't make me take medicine or eat gross things.”

God. Wow. The words are small, but they feel like a serrated blade across my chest. I have spent seven years being the "bad guy" so he could be healthy.

I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to hold myself together as the pain bloomed sharp and deep.

It couldn't be that deep right?

But it was. I stood there listening to my son openly wished for another woman to take my place. A woman who I was sure didn't even know his blood type.

Happy birthday, Emily, I thought bitterly, a hollow laugh trapped in my throat. A very happy birthday indeed.

***

***

I had to force my legs to move, but I stood there a heartbeat longer, paralyzed by morbid curiosity.

My son was essentially holding auditions for a new mother.

Malcom’s voice drifted from the kitchen, gentle and warm in a way he hadn’t been with me in months. “Well, Monica has a family of her own, honey. That’s not possible.”

*And if she didn’t?* The thought pierced me. If Monica had never married abroad, would Malcom and I even be together right now? Or had I always been nothing more than a temporary fix for an unplanned pregnancy?

“I’ll always be here for you, Jason. You know that,” Monica replied, her voice sweet like honeyed poison.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, pinned on a hollow smile, and finally stepped into the dining area.

“Dinner smells delicious,” I muttered.

The table was beautifully set, a perfect family-style spread of glistening roasted chicken, vibrant salads, and expensive artisan bread. The kind of meal I used to slave over for hours. It screamed effort.

Tonight, Malcom had done all this, assisted by my son.

Just for her.

​I took my seat at the far end the spot that used to be Malcom's, I felt like a discarded relic. Malcom had moved to the side, positioning himself between Monica and Jason. They formed a tight, intimate triangle of easy conversation, leaving me anchored at the head of the table like a spectator at my own life.

Conversation flowed easily around me — stories of Monica’s travels, her latest projects, her exciting life. Jason stared at her with open adoration.

Malcom looked at her like a man rediscovering light. It was hard to swallow my food while watching my son and husband gaze at another woman with such obvious affection.

“Oh, Malcom, you’re exaggerating,” Monica laughed lightly. She turned to me with that practiced, pitying smile. “But tell me, Emily, how have you been? Malcom mentioned you still do a bit of… sketching from home?”

The word sketching felt like a deliberate slap.

“It’s going quite well, actually,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “And it’s not sketching, Monica. It’s called fashion design. Haute couture. Several of my collections have been featured on international runways.”

Malcom cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with my tone. Monica blinked, then smiled indulgently.

“That’s really cute,” she said, already turning back to Malcom. “It’s so important to have a little hobby to keep busy when you’re a stay-at-home mom.”

*A little hobby.*

I froze mid-slice. Before I could respond, Jason jumped in excitedly.

“Monica is helping me with my art project!” he announced proudly. “She says my perspective is ‘avant-garde.’ Right, Monica?”

“That’s right, champ,” she cooed, reaching over to ruffle his hair. Jason hated that. But I watched as my son leaned into her touch happily, the same touch he had snapped at me for countless times.

My eyes landed on a small elegant gift box on the table. I reached for it the same moment Monica did. She let out a soft, tinkling laugh and pulled it toward herself.

“Oh, Malcom gave this to me,” she said brightly, holding it up. “A little gift. He has the best taste.”

A gift. He found the time to buy her a gift, but hadn't managed a single "Happy Birthday" for his wife.

The pain lodged in my throat like glass. I stood up abruptly. “Excuse me.”

Later that evening, after Monica had supposedly left, I tried again.

“Jason, come let's do your homework.”

“Monica already helped me,” he replied flatly, not even looking up.

“Oh… Well, goodnight then.”

“Dad, can I go to Monica’s place after school?” Jason asked. “She’s helping me with my art project.”

“Okay, son,” Malcom answered without hesitation.

“I can help him,” I cut in. “There’s no need to send him over there. I’m right here.”

What do you know about art, Emily?" Malcom said sharply. "Monica is well-traveled. She understands aesthetics."

​"Right. I’m too much of an illiterate to understand a third-grader's project," I chuckled bitterly. Malcom gave me that familiar pointed look, the one that said I was being "too much."

That was when I finally snapped.

“You invited her over today. Do you even know what day it is?!” My voice cracked. “Did you even remember?”

​"What are you talking about?" Malcom snapped. "What is making you nag so much?"

“My birthday,” I whispered, the words barely audible as all strength left me.

He stared at me, lips parting, then pressed them together in mild guilt. Jason simply looked between us, unbothered.

I let out a small, jagged laugh. "And I just had to be greeted by your ex in my home, listening to the plans you all made. Like some happy family."

The silence was deafening.

“Mom’s just upset we forgot her birthday,” Jason whispered to Malcom, his voice void of remorse or sympathy, as if I was being unreasonable.

Just then, I heard heels clicking behind me. Monica stepped into view, jacket in hand. She had clearly been standing there the whole time, listening.

“I’m so sorry,” she said softly, voice full of pity. “I left my jacket… Happy birthday, Emily.”

I couldn’t take it anymore. I spun around and walked upstairs without another word.

Minutes later, the bedroom door burst open. Jason stormed in, face twisted with anger.

“Monica’s upset!” he yelled. “She said you don’t like her and now she won’t come over anymore! Because of you, I can’t go to her house either! She doesn’t want to see us again!”

“Jason!” I snapped.

“Go to your room. Right now.”

"Why do you always..."

"Jason!" I interrupted.

I couldn't take another moment of my son mentioning what he felt was my inadequacy.

He glared at me for a long second, then slammed the door on his way out.

I sank onto the bed, exhausted.

“Don’t you think you’re overreacting?” Malcom asked from the doorway, arms crossed.

I stared at him in disbelief.

“You yelled at our son like that over nothing,” he continued dismissively.

“Overreacting?” I whispered.

“Look, I’m sorry we forgot your birthday. I’ve been swamped at work. These things happen.”

“I would never forget something like that,” I said quietly.

“Yeah, well… you stay home. You’re not out there dealing with real pressure. As a stay-at-home wife, you have time to keep track of these things.” He let out a light chuckle, as if it was a harmless joke.

“Homemaker,” I corrected softly.

“I make this home, Malcom. You think it’s just a few chores that leave me with nothing to do?”

He didn’t respond. The comparison hung heavy in the air — me versus the brilliant, radiant Monica with her thriving career.

“I’m sorry,” he said eventually, stepping closer. “I’ll make it up to you.”

​"Right," I said, looking at Malcom and not recognizing the man standing in front of me.

"If you can make time for me between your outings with her. Or the next gala."

​I ran my hand through my hair. I swore I wouldn't let it get to me, but it was. The photos of my "family" with Monica were everywhere. But the final insult came the next afternoon.

I slept in the study that night.

Not because I planned to. Upset and restless, I threw myself into the one thing I could control.

Work.

It had been neglected long enough. I simply sat down at my desk with my sketchbook after leaving our empty bedroom, and somewhere between refining the neckline of a couture piece and adjusting the gemstone placement on a collar design, the hurt had quietly transformed itself into something useful.

By the time I looked up, it was past three in the morning and my neck ached from hunching over the drafting table.

I didn't go back to our room.

My assistant had sent the message two days ago—Luxe & Legacy Group wanted to review my collection. A real meeting.

The kind I hadn't had in years. This was, in so many ways, going to be my big break. I had almost talked myself out of it twice, convinced that something at home would need me more, that my roles as a wife and mother had to come first.

But no. I was finally done with that.

I dressed carefully that morning. Tailored blazer. Good shoes. Hair done. I picked up my leather portfolio and came downstairs feeling, for the first time in months, like I actually had somewhere important to be.

They were both at the breakfast table.

I frowned at the sight I was greeted with.

Jason had a tower of syrup-drenched pancakes in front of him, the kind I never allowed on a school morning because of what the sugar did to his stomach. He was eating without a word of protest, without anyone reminding him to slow down.

Malcom was on his second coffee, watching Jason with an easy, relaxed expression I hadn't seen him wear in this kitchen in a very long time.

They both looked up when I appeared.

"Were you on your way out?" Malcom asked.

"Yes," I said.

He set his mug down and stood, and something in his posture shifted into that particular mode of his—the boardroom mode, smooth and persuasive.

"Is it something that can wait? I was thinking we go out today. All three of us. The galleria—games, shops, maybe a film. Something we haven't done in a while."

I looked at him, my breath catching. Was he serious?

He meant it. I could see that much. There was a trace of guilt behind his eyes, the residue of a man who knew he had done something wrong the night before and was trying to correct it. Beside him, Jason had drifted over from the table, watching me with an expression that was almost hopeful.

My fingers tightened around the portfolio strap. I thought about Crystal, my professional identity. I thought about the meeting, about how long I had waited for exactly this kind of opportunity.

But looking at them, a small, treacherous surge of warmth bloomed in my chest. I wanted this.

God, I wanted this so badly. Ever since Monica had returned, we hadn't had our moments. Every outing, every routine had revolved around her, while I was systematically left out in the cold.

I had been so desperately starved for my husband to want us, to include me, to just choose me for once.

Even with the frost from yesterday still burning, the temptation to have a normal, quiet day with my family was overwhelming. I couldn't bring myself to say no to the people I loved most. My career could wait a few hours.

I stared down at my portfolio, letting go of my morning plans.

"Alright," I said quietly. "Let me get my bag."

___

The galleria was bright and unhurried, the way public holidays make everything feel. Malcom pointed out architecture and installation as we walked, and for a few minutes, we talked about it like two people who still knew how to talk to each other.

Jason walked between us eating a soft pretzel, getting salt on his shirt, complaining cheerfully about nothing in particular.

I went off to buy us movie tickets. Three of them. I stood at the counter choosing the seats middle row, not too close to the screen because of Jason's eyes and felt something loosen in my chest.

I was walking back to where I had left them when I heard her laugh.

I knew it before I turned around. I knew it the way you know a sound that has haunted enough of your evenings that your body recognizes it before your mind does.

Monica emerged from the crowd looking like she had stepped out of a magazine. She kissed Jason's cheek.

Then she turned to Malcom and brushed her lips briefly against his in greeting—casual and familiar, the way you greet someone you see all the time.

The movie tickets felt very light in my hand suddenly. I looked at Malcom's face. He did not look surprised.

A cold weight dropped straight into my stomach. It wasn't a coincidence.

I was about to say something—some version of *what is she doing here* that I would have to phrase carefully so I didn't sound like the difficult, nagging wife when a voice boomed behind us.

"Mr. Grayson!"

A distinguished older man was crossing toward us, his wife gliding elegantly at his side. I watched as Malcom instantly straightened.

"Mr. Chen." Malcom extended his hand warmly. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"A happy coincidence," Mr. Chen said, surveying our group with the satisfied expression of a man who approves of what he sees. His gaze settled on Monica standing flush against Malcom's side, with Jason tucked comfortably between them.

"What a beautiful family, Mr. Grayson. Your wife is stunning. And your son—a fine boy."

The words landed like a blow somewhere in my sternum and stayed there.

*No.* I took one step forward, my mouth opening to shatter the lie, but neither of them corrected him.

Not Malcom. Not Monica, who merely smiled graciously, touched Malcom's arm, and said something warm and charming that made Mr. Chen laugh.

Not even Jason, who straightened up with pride and said thank you in the polished way I had spent years teaching him to address elders.

I was standing four feet away, entirely erased.

Mrs. Chen had already turned to Monica, her eyes bright with admiration.

"Is that a rare padparadscha sapphire? I haven't seen one of that clarity outside of an auction house."

Monica's face lit up with genuine pleasure. "You have an extraordinary eye, Mrs. Chen. I found it in Colombo—there's a jeweler there who sources directly from the mines in—"

I stopped moving. I watched the couple completely glaze over how elegant "Mrs. Grayson" was.

I watched my husband laugh at something Mr. Chen said, his eyes filled with pure relief and corporate greed. I watched Jason tug Monica's sleeve and whisper something that made her look down at him with open affection. I watched Mrs. Chen link her arm through Monica's as if they were old friends reuniting.

Monica was a perfect fit for his high-society world, facilitating a multi-million dollar merger on the spot.

I was behind a pillar by then. I don't know exactly when I had drifted there, completely hidden from their view.

"Let's have lunch, we can discuss art while the men talk business," the foreign dignitary's wife suggested.

Malcom's face was a portrait of pure satisfaction. "We'd be honored, Mrs. Chen."

We.

They began to move, all of them, the whole warm, laughing constellation of them, turning toward the restaurant wing. No one looked back. No one scanned the crowd. No one noticed I was missing.

I stood behind the pillar with three movie tickets in my hand and watched until they rounded the corner and were completely gone.

The tickets were printed on thick card stock. Good quality. I had been pleased by that when the machine dispensed them, a small, stupid thought that now felt entirely pathetic.

A wave of crushing, hollow humiliation washed over me.

I had dropped everything, sacrificed a meeting, and rescheduled my entire life again just to accommodate my family because I thought they finally wanted me. And they hadn't even thought about me once.

With a sharp, tight motion, I crumpled the tickets in my fist and threw them into the nearest trash bin.

I sucked in a deep breath. Breathed in. Breathed out. I had to stop crying. I had real work to do.

Turning on my heel, I walked toward the exit. Outside, the afternoon air hit my face, shocking me back to reality. I raised my hand for a taxi, stopped by the mansion just long enough to retrieve my portfolio from the glove box, and headed out again.

I had somewhere important to be.

------

The receptionist at Luxe & Legacy Group greeted me warmly, an unexpected kindness that nearly undid the fragile composure I was clinging to.

A woman in a sharply tailored suit came to meet me personally. She introduced herself as the assistant to the executive director, took my portfolio with both hands as though it genuinely mattered, and led me to a quiet waiting area with the manner of someone who had been eagerly anticipating my arrival.

“I’ll have this processed immediately,” she said with a sincere smile. “We’ve been looking forward to reviewing your collection, Miss Crystal.”

I returned a small, grateful smile. Hearing my professional name aloud felt like an awakening. I sat down on the cool, firm leather chair.

I don't know how long I sat there before I heard it.

Small feet. Running fast across the polished floor.

"Mom!"

The impact was immediate and TOTAL a small body launched itself into my lap with complete, fearless confidence. Tiny arms wrapped tightly around my neck, and a little face burrowed deeply into my shoulder.

The sheer force of the collision nearly toppled me off the leather chair.

I sat very still for a moment, completely stunned, my hands hovering in the air.

Then I looked down.

A little girl, perhaps four or five years old, was gazing up at me with enormous, luminous eyes, the kind of eyes that have not yet learned to hide anything. She was grinning radiantly, as though she had found exactly what she had been looking for.

A flustered nanny arrived seconds later, breathless and horrified, trying to detach her from my clothes.

"I'm so sorry, ma'am! She just ran. Stop it right now!" she scolded, reaching for the child.

"It's alright," I said, my voice coming out much softer than I intended.

I looked at the little girl, who remained firmly attached to my arm, showing absolutely no signs of releasing her grip. She smelled of something sweet, like vanilla, and her dark hair was escaping from two lopsided pigtails that someone had attempted and mostly failed to secure.

Looking into her innocent face, I felt something profound in my chest shift.

She gave me an adorable, gap-toothed smile that made my heart thoroughly melt.

"What's your name?" I asked gently.

She beamed at me, entirely delighted, like I had asked exactly the right question.

​

Malcom’s eyes moved across the galleria floor with practiced subtlety, scanning the crowd even as he maintained perfect attention on Mr. Chen’s questions. He wasn’t looking for Emily out of concern. He was looking for her out of calculation.

He needed to ensure she wouldn't show up and ruin an interaction that was currently going so smoothly. Emily had a particular talent for arriving at exactly the wrong moment with exactly the wrong expression—that wounded, searching look she carried around like a second handbag.

Mr. Chen was old money in the truest sense — traditional, family-oriented, and notoriously selective about who he partnered with. Malcom had studied him like a general studies his opponent. Family values were not just a preference for Mr. Chen; they were a requirement.

And Monica was excelling.

She stood beside him now, laughing softly at something Mrs. Chen had said, her arm lightly linked with the older woman’s. She looked every bit the elegant, well-traveled, poised wife.

Malcom hadn’t planned for her to appear, but he wasn’t surprised. Jason had a habit of telling Monica everything, and she had always possessed an uncanny talent for appearing exactly where she was needed.

Mrs. Chen had not let go of Monica’s arm in nearly ten minutes. The lunch invitation was another excellent sign. Mr. Chen had already laughed three times — genuine laughter, not the polite kind reserved for boardrooms.

Jason, sensing the atmosphere the way only children could, had straightened his posture and was behaving with surprising poise. When Mrs. Chen addressed him, he answered clearly and sweetly. The older woman had pressed a hand to her heart, visibly charmed.

Malcom allowed himself one quiet breath of relief.

As for Emily… he still hadn’t spotted her. Good. She had probably wandered off or returned to the car. She was excellent at disappearing quietly when the situation required it.

She would understand. She always did, eventually. This deal was too important.

Monica caught his eye briefly over Mrs. Chen’s shoulder. Something passed between them — not guilt, simply the quiet understanding of two people who had always fit together seamlessly. Malcom looked away first.

---

Several floors above the galleria, in the sleek executive suite of Luxe & Legacy Group, the afternoon moved with clinical precision.

It always did when an important man like Xavier was present.

Assistants straightened their postures. Directors spoke more carefully. Even the air seemed to hold its breath around the man who acquired companies the way other men collected rare art — deliberately, ruthlessly, and with absolute certainty of their future value.

Xavier was in the final stages of folding Luxe & Legacy into his growing empire. He had no intention of signing anything until he was personally satisfied.

As he passed the design review boardroom, something on the projection screen through the half-open door stopped him mid-stride.

The entire entourage behind him halted instantly.

Xavier pushed the door open without announcement. The room fell into immediate, tense silence.

He crossed to the screen, eyes locked on one particular design. A collar necklace of extraordinary beauty — gemstones arranged in a way that felt both architectural and organic, as if the piece had been grown rather than made. Beside it, a matching couture sketch that spoke to the same vision.

He picked up the nearest tablet and zoomed in, studying the clasp details, the stone cuts, and the precise handwritten notes in the margins about fabric weight and movement.

Something tugged at his memory.

“These designs,” he said, voice low and commanding. “Where did they come from?”

The creative director recovered first. “From an independent designer we’re reviewing, sir. She goes by Crystal professionally. We were discussing bringing her on as part of the acquisition package.”

Xavier’s eyes narrowed slightly. He knew that name.

He set the tablet down with deliberate care, then looked at the anxious executives.

“Would you be bringing the designer of that piece on board?” he asked.

“Absolutely, Mr. Vane,” the director assured him quickly. “We plan to offer her a full contract.”

Xavier was quiet for a long moment, the room hanging on his silence.

Finally, he gave a single, decisive nod.

“Bring her on. Full contract. Whatever terms she needs.” He turned toward the door. “And yes… we can proceed to the final stage of the acquisition.”

******

******

Emily

Her name, she informed me with great solemnity, was Amber.

"Amber," I repeated. "That's a beautiful name."

She considered this, apparently decided I had passed some preliminary assessment, and climbed more firmly into my lap with the unselfconscious confidence of a child who has decided she is staying.

She was perhaps four years old. Maybe five, but small for it. She had the kind of face that adults instinctively lean toward — enormous dark eyes, round cheeks still carrying the last softness of babyhood, and an expression of absolute candour that children lose somewhere around the age of seven when they begin to learn that honesty has social consequences. Her pigtails were listing badly to one side. Someone had tried with the ribbons and mostly failed.

She reached into the pocket of her little pinafore and produced a small cloth rabbit, slightly loved into shapelessness, and held it up for my inspection.

"This is Button," she said.

"Hello, Button," I said gravely.

Amber seemed very pleased by this.

The nanny hovered at a careful distance, having given up on extraction and settled into a posture of watchful resignation

​"Where are your parents, love?" I asked, keeping my voice gentle as I smoothed down one of her stray pigtails. "You can't just go around calling every woman you meet your mom."

​The words felt a little heavy in my throat as I said them. I knew firsthand how much it hurt when a child tried to give that title away to someone else; I knew that Amber's real mother, wherever she was, wouldn't like it. I had literally just watched my own son do it to me less than two hours ago.

​"I don't... have one..." Amber whispered, her bright eyes suddenly dropping to her tiny shoes.

​A sharp pang of sympathy hit me right in the chest. "Oh, honey. I'm so sorry."

She looked up at me with those enormous eyes, and then, with the extraordinary resilience of children who have already made their peace with enormous things, she smiled.

Reached into her other pocket and produced a second item, a small plastic gem, faceted, the kind that comes in craft kits, bright as a ruby under the lobby lights.

She pressed it into my palm with great ceremony.

"For you," she said.

I closed my fingers around it. "Thank you, Amber. I'll keep it safe."

She nodded, satisfied, and settled more deeply against me.

"I don't like her," she said then, in a smaller voice, almost a mumble into Button's ear. "So I ran."

I didn't have to ask who she meant. I looked up.

The woman walking toward us was absolutely stunning. She possessed the kind of fierce, striking beauty that belonged on a high-fashion runway—impeccable tailoring, perfect posture, and a face that was engineered for a camera. She looked like a supermodel who would be brilliant at her job, but the moment her cold, irritated gaze landed on the child, it was glaringly obvious that she was completely inept with children.

​This woman was clearly the reason Amber had bolted.

​"I don't like her," Amber muttered again, shrinking back slightly and hiding her face against my blazer.

​"There you are, Amber," the woman said, her voice smooth but entirely devoid of warmth. She stopped in front of us, crossing her arms as she looked down at the little girl, completely ignoring my presence. "Come on, we can go now. If you behave, I'll take you to get that ice cream you wanted."

​She threw out the offers like a corporate negotiator trying to settle a minor dispute, but Amber wasn't buying it. The little girl stubbornly tightened her grip on my arm, shaking her head.

​Seeing the child's blatant resistance, the stunning woman rapidly lost her patience. The beautiful facade cracked, revealing a harsh, ugly annoyance underneath.

She snapped her fingers and looked sharply at the nanny. "Grab her and bring her to the car. We don't have time for another one of her tantrums."

​The nanny flinched and stepped forward to pull Amber away. Seeing the genuine distress on the little girl's face, I couldn't just sit there

"Wait," I said, before I could stop myself.

The woman looked at me. It was not a warm look.

"She's clearly not comfortable," I said carefully.

"Perhaps if we just give her a moment—"

"I appreciate the concern," the woman said, in a tone that appreciated nothing of the sort.

"But this really isn't any of your business, is it?"

It was said pleasantly enough. The pleasantness made it worse.

The nanny stepped forward and gently but firmly detached Amber from my arm. Amber went without screaming, which somehow made it sadder — she simply went still and small the way a child does when they already know resistance won't work.

Mom!" Amber cried once.

​I took a step forward, my protective instincts flaring up, but the receptionist at the front desk gently caught my attention.

​"Miss Crystal," the woman said kindly, her voice low and cautionary as she guided me away from the scene.

"I think it's best you let things be. Her father is incredibly influential in this city and in this very building. I know for a fact that she will be well taken care of, but getting involved will only cause trouble for you."

​She gave me a meaningful look, silently reminding me of why I was standing in this lobby in the first place.

I was here to secure a lifeline for my dormant career. I couldn't afford a public scandal with an elite tycoon before I even had a foot in the door.

​I looked down the hall, watching the stunning woman stride away without a single backward glance at the crying child.

She was his girlfriend, clearly, but she didn't care about Amber. She only cared about the man who held the influence.

I let out a long, heavy sigh, my chest aching with a familiar, suffocating feeling of helplessness.

​"Miss Crystal?"

​A sharp, professional voice broke through the fog of my thoughts, tearing my eyes away from the empty hallway.

"I apologise for the wait. The board has reviewed your collection and they'd like to move to a collaboration agreement today, if you're available." She smiled — a real one. "They were quite unanimous, which I'm told is something of a record."

I stood. Smoothed my blazer. Straightened my spine.

Was this for real?

But it was.

The folder in my arms was heavy.

I wasn't dreaming.

Clutching the folder to my chest, I pushed through the glass revolving doors. The crisp afternoon air hit my face, and for the first time in an eternity, I could breathe.

Then, a panicked scream shattered the city noise.

"Amber! No! Stop!"

My head snapped toward the sound. Amber had broken away from her nanny again, Her lopsided pigtails flew wildly in the wind as she ran blindly.

At that exact second, a sleek, black luxury sedan rounded the corner, accelerating aggressively.

The driver couldn't see her on time she was too small, hidden by the concrete pillars.

She stepped straight off the curb into its direct path.

"Amber!" The name tore from my throat.​