Diana showed up at eight-thirty with two bottles of wine and enough Thai food to feed four people. She didn't knock. She had a key. She'd had one since the night three years ago when I'd called her crying about a deadline I couldn't meet and she'd driven across the city with coffee and her laptop.
I heard the door open. Heard her kick off her shoes. She walked into the living room and found me sitting at the table with the notebook open in front of me.
"Hey," she said.
I looked up. "Hey."
She set the bags on the counter and pulled out containers. Pad Thai. Spring rolls. Green curry. She opened both bottles and poured two glasses without asking if I wanted any.
"I watched the livestream," she said. She handed me a glass. "From my couch. With my cat. And a lot of rage."
I took the wine. Didn't drink.
"I'm not going to say I told you so," Diana continued. She sat down across from me. "Except I am. Because I did. For five years."
"I know."
"You're worth more than his shadow, Mal. You always were."
I nodded. My throat felt tight.
"Did you quit?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Good." She raised her glass. "To walking out."
I raised mine. We drank. The wine was sharp and cold.
"I signed with Apex Dynamics this morning," I said.
Diana stopped mid-sip. "Sterling Mitchell's firm."
"Yes."
"Holy shit." She set her glass down. "That's not just walking out. That's burning the bridge and salting the earth."
"He offered me Chief Strategy Officer. My name on everything. Full creative authority."
Diana stared at me. Then she smiled. Wide. Real. "You said yes."
"I said yes."
She stood up, walked around the table, and pulled me into a hug. I didn't move at first. Then my hands came up and gripped her back. Something in my chest cracked open. Not breaking. Opening.
I cried. Not loud. Not for long. But real.
Diana held on. "About damn time," she whispered.
We ate on the floor. Drank both bottles. Talked until two in the morning. When she finally left, I felt lighter. Steadier. Like I'd remembered how to stand.
Across town, Darren sat in his office on the forty-eighth floor of Howard Enterprises. The building was empty. The cleaning crew had left an hour ago.
He stared at his laptop screen. The product timeline for the next flagship release. It was due in six weeks. The strategic framework document—the one that should have outlined the core vision—sat in his inbox. He'd assigned it to his senior team after Mallory left.
He opened it. Read the first page. Then the second.
It was fine. Competent. Professional.
It was also completely useless.
There was no center. No through-line. No vision holding it together. Just a collection of features and buzzwords that sounded impressive and meant nothing.
He closed the file. Rubbed his eyes. Checked his watch. Eleven forty-three.
He picked up his phone and texted his assistant. *Send flowers to Mallory Bishop. Home address. Expensive. Tomorrow morning.*
He set the phone down. Leaned back in his chair. Looked out at the city lights.
She'd be back. She always came back.
The flowers arrived at nine a.m. White roses. Two dozen. The card read: *Let's talk. –D*
I was in the lobby when the delivery guy walked in. I signed for them. Looked at the card. Set the whole arrangement on the front desk.
"Anyone want these?" I asked the doorman.
He blinked. "You sure?"
"Positive."
I walked out. Didn't look back.
At Howard Enterprises, Darren walked Jovie into the executive conference room at ten-thirty. Six investors sat around the table. Senior partners from the Patterson family fund and two other major firms.
"Jovie's going to walk you through the technical architecture," Darren said smoothly. "She knows this project better than anyone."
Jovie smiled. Perfect. Confident. She wore a cream blouse and tailored pants. She looked like someone who belonged in the room.
One of the investors—a man in his fifties with steel-gray hair—leaned forward. "We'd like to understand the core framework. Specifically, how the adaptive layer integrates with legacy systems."
Jovie's smile didn't falter. "It's really about creating a seamless user experience," she said. "The design philosophy centers on intuitive interaction. Everything flows naturally."
The investor waited. "Right. But technically. How does the integration work?"
Jovie gestured gracefully. "It's elegant. Modular. The architecture is built to feel invisible to the end user."
Silence.
The investor glanced at his colleague. Then back at Jovie. "Can you walk us through the data pipeline?"
"Of course." Jovie's voice stayed warm. "It's designed to handle complexity with simplicity. That's the beauty of it."
Another pause. Longer this time.
Darren stepped in. "What Jovie's describing is the user-facing layer. I can pull up the technical specs if you want the backend details."
The investor nodded slowly. "That would be helpful."
The meeting continued. Darren covered. Smoothly. Professionally. But the room had already shifted. The questions came faster. Sharper. And Jovie's answers stayed beautiful and empty.
In the back corner, Russell Vance took notes on his tablet. He didn't look up. But his jaw was tight.
After the investors left, Darren walked Jovie to the elevator. She looked shaken. Small.
"That was fine," Darren said. "They're always tough."
Jovie nodded. Didn't speak.
The elevator doors closed.
Darren walked back to his office. Sat down. Stared at the flowers on his desk—the ones he'd ordered for himself that morning, a standing arrangement for the credenza.
He picked up his phone. Opened his messages. Typed: *Mallory. We need to talk.*
He stared at the screen. Then deleted it.
Not yet.
She'd come back.
She had to.
