Margot's was a small, elegant cafe tucked away on Madison Avenue—the kind of place where Manhattan's elite came for discreet conversations. I arrived exactly on time to find Vanessa already there, nervously shredding a napkin.
She looked different than she had at the gala. Younger, more vulnerable, wearing jeans and a simple sweater instead of couture. Without the armor of a designer gown, she looked like what she was: a twenty-six-year-old woman in over her head.
"Olivia." She stood awkwardly. "Thank you for coming."
I sat down, ordering an espresso from the hovering waiter. "You said this wasn't about Marcus."
"It's not. Not exactly." She took a breath. "I wanted to apologize. For everything. For—"
"Vanessa, I told you at the gala. I'm not angry."
"You should be. I knew he was married. I told myself it was different because we had history, because we were supposed to be together before life got in the way.
But that was just an excuse. I helped him cheat on you, emotionally if not physically."
"Did you sleep with him while we were married?"
"No. But I wanted to. I thought about it." She looked down at her hands. "That's almost worse, isn't it? The intention."
My espresso arrived. I took a sip, studying her. "Why are you really here, Vanessa?"
She was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Because I'm starting to understand what you went through.
Marcus proposed to me at the gala, in front of everyone. It was perfect—champagne, roses, photographers. Exactly what I'd always dreamed of."
"Congratulations."
"Except the next day, all he could talk about was you. How different you looked, who you were with, why you never told him about your family. He's obsessed with understanding what happened." She met my eyes. "He's not heartbroken, Olivia. He's confused. And I'm realizing that to him, I'm not the love of his life. I'm just the more
convenient option."
I felt an unexpected pang of sympathy. "So why are you still with him?"
"Because I've been in love with him since college. Because I moved to Paris to get over him and spent three years failing. Because when he called and said he was getting divorced, I thought it was fate." She laughed bitterly. "I was so stupid."
"You weren't stupid. You were hopeful. There's a difference."
"He's going to try to get you back," she said suddenly. "He's already
talking about how the divorce was a mistake, how he didn't
understand who you really were, how if he'd known—"
"If he'd known I was rich, he wouldn't have left me?" I shook my head. "That makes it worse, Vanessa. That means he only values me for my bank account, not for who I am."
"I know. But I thought you should be warned. He's been looking into Damien Cross, asking questions about your relationship."
"There's no relationship. We're business partners."
She gave me a look. "Olivia, I saw those photos. That's not just business."
"It's complicated."
"Isn't it always?" She stood, leaving cash on the table. "I should go. Marcus doesn't know I'm here. He'd be furious if he found out I talked to you."
"Vanessa." I stopped her. "For what it's worth? You deserve better than someone who only wants you because his first choice isn't available."
She smiled sadly. "So do you. Don't let Marcus make you doubt that."
After she left, I sat alone with my espresso, processing. Marcus was planning something. Probably some grand gesture, some dramatic attempt to win me back. And for the first time, I realized I needed to cut that off at the source.
I called my lawyer.
"Olivia," Richard Strauss answered. He'd been our family's attorney for twenty years. "What can I do for you?"
"The divorce settlement. The one
Marcus offered that I turned down. I want it amended."
"Amended how?"
"I want a clause preventing him from contacting me for any non-emergency purposes for the next two years. No calls, no texts, no visits. And I want my maiden name legally restored—not just socially, but on all documents."
"That's... unusual, but doable. Any particular reason?"
"I'm closing that chapter of my life completely. No loose ends, no ambiguity, no second chances."
"Consider it done. I'll have the amended papers drawn up today."
Thursday arrived faster than expected. I spent the morning in meetings, the afternoon reviewing the Pemberton partnership contracts, and the evening trying to decide what
to wear to dinner with Damien.
"It's not a date," I told my reflection, even as I selected a burgundy dress that hugged every curve.
Marie appeared in my doorway. "Mr. Cross called. He said he'll pick you up at seven and that you should
wear something warm. Whatever that means."
"Warm?" I frowned. "Where are we going?"
"He didn't say. Very mysterious, that one."
At exactly seven, Damien arrived in a different car—a Range Rover instead of the Aston Martin. He wore jeans and a leather jacket, looking more relaxed than I'd ever seen him.
"We're not going to a restaurant, are we?" I asked, grateful I'd paired the dress with a cashmere coat.
"We are. Just not the kind you're thinking of." He opened the door. "Trust me?"
"That's a dangerous question."
"I know." His smile was challenging. "So? Do you?"
Against my better judgment: "Yes."
We drove north out of Manhattan, through Westchester, the city lights fading behind us. Damien played music I didn't recognize—indie folk, surprisingly mellow—and didn't press me for conversation.
Finally, we pulled up to a small
farmhouse restaurant in the Hudson Valley, fairy lights strung through the trees, maybe ten cars in the parking lot.
"Damien Cross, did you bring me to a farm-to-table restaurant in the middle of nowhere?"
"I did. They're only open three nights a week, no reservations unless you know the owner, and every ingredient is grown within fifty miles. I thought you might appreciate something... different."
Different from the four-star Michelin restaurants and society
dinners, he meant. Different from the world we both usually inhabited.
"I love it," I said honestly.
Dinner was extraordinary—simple food elevated to art. Roasted vegetables that tasted like sunshine, fresh bread that was still warm, a wine the owner
recommended personally. We ate at a communal table with other guests, an artist couple from Brooklyn and a family celebrating their daughter's medical school acceptance.
It was normal. Gloriously, wonderfully normal.
"How did you find this place?" I asked as we shared a dessert that involved honey and lavender.
"I didn't always have money," Damien said. "When I was building CrossTech, I lived on ramen and instant coffee. Worked twenty-hour days, slept in my office. My mother was so worried she'd show up with home-cooked meals in tupperware."
"I can't imagine you eating from tupperware."
"I did for years. Still do sometimes,
when I'm at her house." He smiled. "She refuses to be impressed by my success. Last time I visited, she made me fix her garbage disposal."
I laughed. "I like your mother."
"She'd like you." He paused. "She asked about you, actually. Saw the gala photos."
"What did you tell her?"
"That you were too good for me."
"Damien—"
"I'm serious. You're brilliant, beautiful, kind. You walked away from wealth to test if someone
could love you for yourself. You built a life from nothing and didn't complain when it ended. You're extraordinary, Olivia."
My heart did something complicated in my chest. "I'm not. I'm just figuring things out."
"Then you're figuring them out better than most people." He reached across the table, his hand covering mine. "I know we said this was business. That we weren't interested in complications. But I need to be honest with you."
"About what?"
"About the fact that somewhere between the gala and the Pemberton meeting and right now, I stopped thinking of you as a business arrangement."
The air between us shifted, charged with possibility.
"Damien, I just got divorced. I'm not ready for—"
"I know. I'm not asking you to be ready. I'm just telling you where I stand." He squeezed my hand. "No pressure, no expectations. Just honesty."
Before I could respond, my phone
rang. My father.
"I'm sorry, I need to—"
"Of course."
I answered. "Dad? Is everything okay?"
"Olivia." His voice was serious. "I need you to come home. Tonight. It's about Marcus."
My stomach dropped. "What about him?"
"He's here. At the estate. He showed up an hour ago
demanding to speak with you. Security won't let him in, but he's refusing to leave. He
says he'll wait all night if he has to."
I closed my eyes. "I'm in the Hudson Valley. It'll take me an hour to get there."
"I can have him removed—"
"No. I'll handle it." I looked at Damien. "I need to go."
He was already standing, pulling out his wallet. "Let's go."
In the car, driving back toward the city, Damien didn't ask questions. He just drove, one hand on the wheel, the other finding mine in the darkness.
"For what it's worth," he said finally, "I meant what I said. About you being extraordinary. About how I feel. Whatever happens tonight with your ex-husband doesn't change that."
"I know." I squeezed his hand. "But Damien? I'm not ready to figure out what this is between us. Not yet. I need to close one door before I can think about opening another."
"I understand. I'll wait."
"You might be waiting a long time."
"Then I'll wait a long time." He glanced at me. "You're worth
waiting for, Olivia."
As we sped through the night toward whatever confrontation waited at my family's estate, I held onto that—the certainty in his voice, the warmth of his hand, the promise of something that might be worth the risk.
But first, I had to deal with Marcus Chen.
One last time.