Page 39 of His Vow

I was close. The architecture was almost complete. Fifteen years of patience narrowed to a sequence of moves I could see laid out in front of me like a chessboard in the final third — the pieces reduced, the paths limited, the endgame visible.

I closed the Helios file and opened the Albright portfolio review I was supposed to be finishing. My fingers moved across the keyboard, entering notes, adjusting projections.

A flash of gold past the glass wall. I looked up.

Soleil was in the lobby.

She stood near the elevator bank with her hand on Hugh's arm, her head tipped back, laughing at something he'd said. Her curls were loose, windblown from the street, a few strands caught against her cheek. She wore a camel coat over something dark, and the canvas tote on her shoulder was stuffed with what looked like fabric samples. A daughter stopping by to see her father on his turf.

Hugh's arm was around her shoulder. He was beaming. She kissed his cheek.

My hands went still on the keyboard.

She kissed that cheek freely, without calculation, warmth offered as a default because she'd never been taught to ration it. She didn't know those two acts were at war with each other. She didn't know her boyfriend was sitting 50 ft. away, inside her father's company, at her father's invitation, using her trust as a system badge.

The thought didn't hit like a revelation. It hit like something physical — slow, rising.

Every morning, I walked into this building with that badge, sat at this desk and smiled at Hugh's jokes. I photographed his financial records while his daughter slept in my bed with her hand on my chest.

I closed the laptop and pressed my palms flat against the desk. The surface was cool, solid. I counted the grain lines in the wood until my breathing leveled.

Through the glass, Hugh squeezed Soleil's shoulder and said something that made her nod. His eyes swept the floor and found me through the glass. He raised his hand and waved.

I stood, buttoned my jacket, and walked out.

The lobby smelled like her before I reached them — rosemary and vanilla, cutting through the sterile air of Lattimore's fourteenth floor like something living had entered a room designed to keep living things out. She turned at the sound of my footsteps. Her face changed.

The brightness was there, but it dimmed. 1°. A light turned down rather than off. Her smile thinned at the corners. Her eyes held mine for a beat, then moved to Hugh, and the warmth she had withdrawn from me she gave to him.

"Daddy, has Nolan been settling in well?" She tucked her hand into the crook of Hugh's elbow. Her chin lifted. "He's been so busy I've barely seen him."

Hugh chuckled. "He's been a godsend. Gerald can't stop singing his praises." He clapped my shoulder. "We're lucky to have him."

"Daddy, tell Nolan we should all have dinner soon. The four of us. Rhys, too, if he'll answer his phone."

Direct address to Hugh. Third person for me. I was standing 2 ft. from her, and she was making me a noun in someone else's sentence. Hugh didn't notice the architecture of it — or if he did, the warm father let it slide. His phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen.

"I've got Harrison in five." He kissed Soleil's forehead. "Stay as long as you want. The café downstairs has that lavender thing you like." He pointed at me. "Take care of my girl."

He walked toward the executive corridor. His stride was unhurried. His shoulders were set. The silver hair caught the light as he turned the corner and disappeared.

The lobby emptied around us. A receptionist typed. An elevator chimed. The hum of the building filled the space where Hugh's warmth had been.

"How's the gallery?" I asked.

"Busy." She was looking at the elevator. Not at me. "Rafael's new series is coming together. Margaux is handling the catalog. I'm managing."

"Soleil."

"I should go. I just came to drop off those fabric samples for Daddy's office renovation. Catherine's expecting them." She adjusted the tote on her shoulder, still not looking at me. Her jaw was set in a way I recognized — not anger, not yet, but the scaffolding around it. The structure a person builds when they're holding something back, and the holding is costing them.

She turned toward the elevator.

I fell in step beside her. She walked to one of the doors and pressed the button for going down. I watched as she avoided my gaze, her fingers tapping against her tote.

"Can we talk?"

"We're talking."