Page 8 of A Perfect Fit

“Yeah,” I say absentmindedly.

We ride in silence as Tony navigates his way through the busy traffic to Manhattan. As expected, the city is bustling with activity—tourists walking around, locals hustling about, and street vendors serving customers. I lean back against the seat and close my eyes.

I’m home. I’m home for good.

The iconic Flatiron Building comes into view as we enter the Flatiron District, and after weaving through a few more streets, we arrive at the mid-rise brick building that houses Carter Marketing Solutions.

I thank Tony before putting my suit jacket back on and exiting the car.

My soon-to-be secretary, Clarissa—a woman in her fifties—is already waiting for me outside the building since I don’t have my key card yet. We shake hands and exchange introductions.

Clarissa beams. “How are you feeling about starting here?”

I put on a professional smile. “I’m really excited to be here.”

The words don’t sound as convincing as they did in my head when they leave my mouth. If Clarissa notices it, she doesn’t let on that she does.

She leads me inside the building and up the elevator to the eleventh floor. Carter Marketing Solutions employs over fifty staff, and its offices are spread across two floors.

“Alex is waiting for you in conference room 3A,” Clarissa says, referring to the company’s current CEO.

“Thanks, Clarissa.”

I head down the hallway toward one of the conference rooms to meet Alex, and for the next hour, he gives me a final detailed rundown of everything I need to know—strategy, operations, and staffing.

After my meeting, Clarissa gives me a tour of the rest of the office, which ends in her showing me to one of the empty rooms.

“This will be your office,” she says.

Rays of sunlight spill into the room as I glance around my surroundings. Aside from a simple desk and office chair, there’s no decor or any other furniture. I wonder if this used to be Dad’s office. I picture him sitting at the desk, reviewing files and taking calls with clients.

Clarissa heads to one of the desk drawers, taking out an old photo, which she hands to me. The photograph looks like it’s been folded, the edges starting to turn yellow.

“I found this a few months ago. It must have been missed when your father’s office was initially cleared out. I kept it, thinking you might want to eventually have it.”

The photo is one of my parents, my older sister, Lucy, and me. We took it in Spain, outside the Sagrada Família, our last overseas trip as a family before my parents got divorced two years later.

Back then, Lucy was twenty and I was fourteen. I remember being in absolute awe of the architecture—from the kaleidoscope of vibrant colors and the lighting, to the forest of columns and intricate details. It was what first sparked my interest in pursuing architecture and led me down a rabbit hole of all things architecture-related.

But architecture’s a dream I’ve forgone, from the day I gave in to Dad’s expectation for me to attend business school.

A lump forms in my throat. “Thank you.”

“I’ll leave you to it.” Clarissa gives me a nod and exits the room.

I place the photograph of my family on the desk and walk around my new office. Despite my mixed feelings about working here, I’m proud of what Dad built from the ground up, proud of the legacy he left.

“Jackson?”

I turn to the source of the voice, to the middle-aged man entering the room, dressed in a charcoal suit. He has brown eyes and brown hair that’s starting to go gray at the sides.

Recognition washes over me. “Andrew?”

Andrew Burke was one of Dad’s closest friends. He used to come over to my parents’ house from time to time when I was younger.

Andrew smiles as he gives me a once-over. “I’m glad you still remember me. The last time I saw you, you were, what, fifteen or sixteen?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Something like that.”