Everything is in place, but my mind hasn’t stayed on the meeting or anything for long these past few days. I reach for my phone, unlocking it as my thumb moves before I consciously decide.
A message from my assistant sits at the top of the thread.
School pickup at four. Usual driver. Schedule unchanged.
I stare at it for a moment, then lock the screen again. I exhale through my nose and push back from the table, standing smoothly as I collect the folder and slide it under my arm. It sits solid in my hand, every piece where it belongs because I put it there.
Crossing the office, I stop briefly at my desk to set the folder down before reaching for my jacket.
There’s no reason to change the routine. It exists because I put it in place, built to run without interruption or me needing to step into it. I pick up my phone anyway and send the message.
I will handle pickup.
The reply comes through before I reach the elevator.
Yes, sir.
I don’t look at it again, slip the phone into my pocket, and keep moving.
The elevator ride is quiet, the faint sound of machinery beneath my feet as the numbers descend. I watch my reflection in the brushed metal panel, taking in the familiar lines of my face, the faint shadow along my jaw, and the set of my shoulders that rarely gives in, no matter the situation. Controlled and disciplined, it has served me well and should still be enough.
The doors open to the lobby, and I step out into the flow of people moving in and out, conversations low, the scent of cologne filling the space. My driver straightens the second he sees me, already moving to open the rear door.
“Change of plans,” I say as I approach. “We’re picking Ivy up.”
He nods once. “Yes, sir.”
I slide into the back seat, the door closing with a muted thud as the car pulls away from the curb, the city moving around us in its usual flow. My attention doesn’t stay on any of it though. Not on the traffic or the route, but on a small building that smells of lemon cleaner and animals, and on a woman who looks at me like my money and position mean nothing to her.
My jaw locks before I ease it and lean back into the seat. This is unnecessary. I’ve been with women since Clara died. Enough to understand the difference between distraction and interest. Enough to know when something isn’t worth the complication it brings. Those interactions were simple, arranged, and clear in purpose, with no expectation beyond the moment itself. No lingering thought once it ended.
This isn’t that, and I don’t allow complications.
The car slows as the light ahead turns red, and I look out the window, taking in the street without fixing on any one point. My attention turns inward again, focusing on the memory of Maggiewith more detail than it should. The line of her mouth when she realized she had made a mistake with the dog treat, the warmth of her skin, and the way her eyes stayed fixed on mine, not understanding what that invited. There’s nothing practiced or calculated in her, and that alone sets her apart.
My cock hardens at the thought, not just because of how she looks but because of how she holds herself, like she doesn’t bend for anyone. Whatever I am means nothing to her unless I prove it does. I recognize it for what it is, a point of friction, a problem that doesn’t belong in my day, and still it remains.
The light changes, and the car moves forward again. The school sits off a quieter road, the building set back behind a row of trees. Children gather near the entrance, their voices rising and falling across the lot, kept in check only by the adults standing nearby.
The car pulls into the pickup line and comes to a stop as I look out over the crowd. It takes less than a second to find her.
Ivy stands near the edge of the group, her backpack slipping off one shoulder as she bounces from one foot to the other, her attention moving between the gate and the people around her. Her hair catches the light, warm brown curls loose around her face.
She looks up and spots the car, going still for a fraction of a second before her expression changes. Then she runs, quick enough to show it, but not enough to make a scene.
I step out of the car before she reaches me, closing the distance as she stops just short of colliding with me, her hands gripping the front of my jacket as she looks up.
“Papa!” she says, breathless. “You came.”
“I had time,” I reply, my hand coming to rest briefly on the top of her head before I take her backpack from her shoulder.
“Can we go see the puppy?” she asks, already turning toward the car.
“Yes. I assumed we would.”
I wait until she climbs in, my attention briefly on the seatbelt before I step back. The driver swings the door shut, and I move around to the other side before getting in.
Ivy edges forward in the seat, her hands braced lightly on the leather as she looks out the windshield, as if she could will the car to move faster.
