The woman had spent twenty minutes deciding whether pretending to be sick would make her a terrible person.
By minute twenty-one, she had almost convinced herself it would not.
She stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of her downtown penthouse while snow drifted across the city below, one hand holding a glass of water she had forgotten to drink.
Her reflection looked completely prepared for romance.
She did not feel remotely prepared.
Long platinum-blonde hair fell over the shoulders of a cropped brown faux-fur jacket.
Beneath it, she wore a fitted white bodysuit and glossy cream trousers cinched with a brown designer belt, the outfit polished enough for an expensive restaurant and uncomfortable enough to remind her why she usually preferred working late.
Tall brown boots waited beside the entryway.
Her handbag sat on the marble counter.
Her phone would not stop vibrating.
That was the real problem.
Emails from investors.
Messages from her chief financial officer.
A revised real-estate estimate.
Three unread texts from her best friend.
And one calendar reminder that appeared almost insulting.
Blind Date. 7:30 p.m. Evergreen Café.
She stared at it.
Then typed:
I think I’m getting sick.
Her best friend replied before she finished locking the screen.
No, you are not.
The woman sighed.
Another message arrived.
You have been married to your company for two years. Put on the boots and go meet one normal human being.
The woman typed:
My company may not exist in six months.
Exactly. Go live one night before you turn into a spreadsheet.
She almost smiled.
Almost.
The problem was that her friend was not exaggerating about the company.
Ten years earlier, the woman had started with one rented studio, two industrial sewing machines, and a line of tailored winter coats she stitched herself until her fingers cramped.
Now her fashion company employed more than two hundred people.
It sold in major cities.
Celebrities wore the clothes.
Magazines profiled her.
Investors called her brilliant when profits were high and reckless whenever growth slowed.
This year, growth had slowed.
Not because customers disappeared.
Because the company had outgrown its current distribution system and needed a larger flagship location with integrated production, showroom space, and offices.
Investors had made their position brutally simple.
Expand by January.
Or they would pull funding.
The woman had spent six months searching for the right property.
She finally found one on Market Street.
Old brick building.
Excellent location.
Enough square footage.
Existing commercial zoning.
It could save the company.
There was only one complication.
The property contained several older small businesses whose leases would have to be terminated after purchase.
Her legal team called it normal redevelopment.
She had not yet looked closely at the tenant list.
She told herself she would tomorrow.
Tonight was supposed to be different.
No acquisitions.
No investor calls.
No employment projections.
Just dinner with a stranger.
She hated the idea.
Across town, the single father hated it too.
He stood inside the apartment above his repair garage wearing the only decent button-down shirt he owned and glaring at his reflection as if the mirror had personally betrayed him.
His six-year-old daughter stood behind him with both hands on her hips.
“You need the jacket.”
“I’m wearing the jacket.”
“You’re holding the jacket.”
“That counts.”
“No.”
The girl had inherited her mother's ability to argue like a prosecutor.
The single father closed his eyes.
“Where did you learn this?”
“Auntie.”
“Of course.”
His sister’s face appeared on the phone propped against the kitchen counter.
“I can hear you.”
“That was intentional.”
His sister grinned.
“Go on the date.”
The single father reached for his coat.
“I said I’m going.”
“You said that twenty minutes ago.”
“I own a garage downstairs. Things happen.”
“Nothing is happening.”
“Something could happen.”
His daughter stepped in front of the door.
“Daddy.”
He stopped.
She tilted her head.
“You promised.”
That ended the argument.
Promises mattered in their house.
Especially after her mother died.
Four years earlier, cancer had taken a healthy thirty-two-year-old woman and turned life into a sequence of hospital rooms, medication schedules, whispered conversations, and one final winter morning the single father still could not think about for too long.
His wife had known she was dying months before he accepted it.
She had planned everything.