I glance at the untouched machine in the corner of my office. “You haven’t even met it yet.”
“I don’t need to. I can feel its judgment from here.”
“That’s projection.”
“That’s survival instinct.”
I huff out a quiet breath that might pass for a laugh, and silence settles—not uncomfortable, but… present. Then she shifts again, the sound of fabric rustling softly.
“I was lying on my floor,” she says, “with a quilt. And tiramisu. And I thought—maybe I should call someone who won’t tell me to breathe through it or picture a meadow or whatever.”
“And you chose me? The least meadow-adjacent person in Manhattan?”
“Exactly.”
“That’s a questionable decision.”
“Yeah, well. I’m on a streak lately.”
“Careful, Miss Beaumont,” I murmur. “I have a habit of turning questionable decisions into even more questionable ones.”
She pauses. “Yeah, I guess you do.”
The words hang there, too honest, too close to something we haven’t defined, when my phone buzzes on the desk, my brother Alexei’s name flashing across the screen.
I ignore it.
“Victor?” she says, quieter now. “You disappeared again.”
“I’m here.” I straighten slightly, pulling my voice back into control. “Another call.”
“This late?”
“Says the woman calling me at midnight.”
“Okay, rude. It’s eleven-fifteen.”
“Unacceptable behavior regardless.”
She shifts again, and I can practically see her—curled up, stubborn, overthinking everything.
“When I can’t sleep,” she says, “my sister Margot makes me play Truth-or-Truth.”
“I’d rather renegotiate with hostile investors.”
“Too bad. You’re playing.”
“I don’t agree to this.”
“Noted. Ignored. First rule: nothing deep. Just honest.”
“I’m not good at honest.”
“That tracks. I’ll go first.”
“I didn’t say?—”
“Too late. Truth: I’m lying on my floor eating cold tiramisu out of a takeout container because the floor feels like the only stable thing in my life right now.”
