Derek had never been here.
That had not been an accident.
From the beginning, I had kept parts of myself behind locked doors—not out of deception, exactly, but out of self-preservation. Men changed when they learned the scale of my wealth. Some became performatively humble. Some became strategic. Some began treating every disagreement like a misstep in a job interview. A few got greedy in ways they disguised as admiration. One proposed after seven months and, two glasses of wine later, asked whether I believed in prenuptial agreements “that protect both parties,” though he earned less in a year than my wine collection was worth.
I had wanted Derek to meet me unadorned by status.
He knew I worked in finance. He knew I had done well for myself. He knew I traveled often, took calls at strange hours, and guarded my privacy with the same firmness other people reserved for their children. He knew I had grown up in foster care, though I had given him only the outline of it, not the interior. He knew I disliked unnecessary attention and refused interviews more often than I accepted them.
He did not know that Ashford Capital Partners managed more than forty-seven billion dollars in assets.
He did not know that the tower in Midtown with my surname in burnished steel over the entrance was not named after some long-dead patriarch, but after me.
He did not know that his father’s law firm had spent the last eight months negotiating the most important transaction in its history with my company.
He did not know any of it because some foolish, stubborn part of me had still wanted the fairytale to begin before money entered the room and sat down between us.
That night he came over with apologies shaped like excuses.
He brought peonies, because he had once heard me say I preferred flowers that looked as though they belonged in old paintings. He opened a bottle of wine from my kitchen without asking, because at some point he had begun to confuse access with intimacy. He stood near the island in his charcoal coat and looked exactly like the sort of man women forgave too often.
“Vivian,” he said softly, “I’m sorry.”
I leaned against the counter and folded my arms. “For what, specifically?”
He flinched. Not from the question, but from the knowledge that I intended to make him answer it honestly.
“For the way my mother spoke to you.”
“And?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “For not handling it better.”
Better.
Not differently. Not correctly. Better.
“Do you know what I heard when she said that?” I asked.
He glanced up. “She was upset. She didn’t mean—”
“Do you know what I heard?”
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