New York Billionaires Series

I nod. “You had the power, but I had access to the power.”

His lip curves. “Sounds like you liked that.”

“Sometimes, yes. Controlling your schedule and calendar, making sure everything was in order… I loved that part of it. I still love organizing. It’s my passion.”

He pushes his empty plate away. “So the part you didn’t love was me.”

“That’s not what I’m saying, really.”

Victor raises an eyebrow. “You told me, when I asked you to marry me, that you wanted to get away from me.”

I shift in my chair. “I remember.”

“So I was the part of your job you didn’t like.”

“Yes,” I admit. “Not always. I learned a lot from you. But you weren’t easy to please or to predict.”

Even so, a certain part of me had been proud to be his assistant because of that very fact. Look at me wrangle this beast. I had access to the man who regularly bit his employees’ heads off, and I hadn’t been fired.

Seeing him in front of me now, shirtsleeves rolled up and dark blue eyes serious on mine, is like having double-vision. The image of him in his own home now, talking to me, superimposed over the image of him behind his desk telling me to get it right the next time or else. Same man. And yet.

The two are blurring, both softening around the edges, and I realize I’m not afraid of him anymore. I haven’t been for quite some time.

“Noted,” he says, as if I’ve spoken the realization aloud. “I know it’s too late, but for what it’s worth, you were excellent at your job. I hope you saw that reflected in your compensation.”

Pride at his words makes my chest swell. Yes, he had compensated me handsomely, and I know I’m luckier than most with my savings account.

But he’d never said the words.

“Thank you,” I say.

He nods again, like we’re done with this topic, but doesn’t rise from the table. Neither of us is eating anymore.

I reach for the wineglass. “Are you excited about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” he repeats. “Ah. Nadine’s exhibition opens.”

“I had Brad call a few art magazines and tell them about the gallery opening.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, as if he’s unsure of how to act. But he nods. “Yes. Should bring some more photographers there. They’ll want to photograph us together.”

“That’s okay.”

“We’ll buy a few pieces for appearance’s sake as well.”

I grin. “Gosh, this is perfect. Thank you, Victor. For doing that.”

“Yeah.”This text is property of Nô/velD/rama.Org.

“I’m so excited for her,” I say. “She’s worked so hard to get to this moment, you know. The gallery is perfect for her and the owners have already hinted they want some of her pieces permanently exhibited.” I laugh, then, remembering her words. “But even at something as momentous as this, her first gallery opening, she’s still trying to set me up with someone.”

Victor lowers his wineglass. “To set you up with someone.”

“Yes. Apparently one of the curators is, and I’m quoting her, a man I could organize a closet for.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“Me neither,” I say. “But it’s Nadine for someone I’d match well with in a relationship.”

“How would she know that?”

“She knows me very well. I don’t think there’s a man I’ve dated that she hasn’t met.”

Victor’s voice is cool. “Do you only date men who are unable to keep their own closets in order?”

I shake my head. Why did I bring this up? “No. It’s her version of a compatibility test, I suppose. She thinks I need to be with someone who balances out my organizational side.”

“Ah,” he says.

“It’s not scientific. I kinda think she wants me to date someone who’s like herself. Maybe it’d work out, you know. She is my best friend for a reason.”

His lips are a thin line. “So you’re going there tomorrow to flirt, as well as to support your friend. Sure you want me to come?”

“Of course I do. I have no intention of flirting with anyone.”

“Except that your friend will encourage you to.”

“I’m my own person,” I say, and I mean it in more ways than one. Why is this silly little story a sticking point? He disappears several nights a week, going who knows where and doing who knows what.

With who knows who.

I’d snuck downstairs on one such night the past week, but he was nowhere to be found on the bottom floor. Gone.

We didn’t promise one another celibacy, and he seems to be making full use of that liberty.

Victor rises from the kitchen table and puts his plate in the sink. It’s an oddly domestic thing for him to do, but with his rolled-up sleeves and ruffled hair, he looks at home here in the kitchen. As elegant as one of his expensive kitchen appliances.

Bonnie’s words come back to me. The St. Clair name is old. Moneyed. Historic. And he’s the last one who carries it. It strikes me as tragic, suddenly, that he never pursues real relationships.

“You are your own person,” he says, as if that settles everything. “Tomorrow evening. I’ll meet you at the gallery.”

“As there will be photographers there, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t flirt in front of them.”

I open my mouth to respond, but he’s already disappearing down the hallway and out of view.

When I come down the next morning, there’s an envelope with my name on it waiting for me on the kitchen counter. Bonnie is nowhere to be seen and Victor had left the apartment over an hour earlier. I’d heard his bedroom door close and the telltale sound of his dress shoes against the hardwood floor.

Judging by the writing on the envelope, he’d left it here for me.