Page 4 of Vance

Kierra chatters on about her silver-fox biology professor, a party she’s thinking of attending this weekend, the study group she’s joined, and a book-themed coffee shop near campus she wants to take me to when I visit next. I listen intently and respond appropriately as I work through my container of drunken noodles.

“I’ve got to run, Soph,” Kierra blurts out. “Sarah and some of the guys from our floor are heading out for dinner. Pizza, I think.”

“That sounds good. Be careful. And text me when you’re home.”

“I will. Love you, Soph.”

“Love you more, Kiki.”

The line goes dead, and silence floods the empty apartment. I poke at a few remaining vegetables before discarding the remnants into the trash.

After grabbing my jacket from the back of the kitchen chair and the heels I kicked off during my call, I head to my bedroom before pausing at my reflection in one of the windows in the living room. I’m gaunt and tired, looking like a woman wearing exhaustion as a second skin.

Five years ago, I was a rising star at a brokerage firm in New York City. I was promoting fast and being paid well. Then my parents died, and the entire world shifted beneath my feet. I left the lavish life I was building and moved back to Chicago so Kierra could finish high school with her friends. This job for the Ashfords was the most lucrative I could find, and I quickly learned why.

The monsters always win.

I press my forehead against the cool glass. Below, the residential street is quiet, lined with trees that are just starting to turn beautiful shades of golden and scarlet. As I push back from the window, I notice a black SUV parked across the street. Its engine is running, white exhaust curling into the cool night air. I stare at it for a long moment, trying to convince myself it’s nothing. Vance Ashford has far better things to do than surveil junior executives who challenge him in meetings.

Doesn’t he?

After closing the blinds, I walk the rest of the way to my bedroom. I strip off the last of my work clothes and pull on an old Northwestern sweatshirt. Having belonged to one of the last men in my now-barren love life, it swallows me whole and hangs down to my knees.

In the kitchen, I pour a glass of cheap wine from the box in the refrigerator and take a seat at the small table. I sip the Cabernet, wincing at its acidic bite while I pace my apartment to mentally draft my proposal. When I peek through the blinds, I find the SUV hasn’t moved from its spot.

My phone buzzes again, and my heart leaps into my throat. I swipe it open, half expecting it to be a cryptic text from across the street. Instead, I find one that doesn’t quite settle my sudden anxiousness.

VANCE ASHFORD

Meeting tomorrow. 8am. My office. Bring your proposal.

My thumb hovers over the screen, the stark white letters glowing brightly. My every instinct screams to ignore it, to throw my phone across the room and pretend I never saw it. But Kiki’s face—her future—flashes in my mind. I can’t afford pride or to be the righteous one right now.

Understood.

I hit send before I can second-guess my one-word reply. It’s clipped and professional. What more can he be expecting at nine o’clock at night? I set the phone face down on the table, unable to stop wondering whether the SUV across the street was a coincidence. The thought of such a violation makes my skin crawl.

I boot up my laptop, the fan whirring in the otherwise oppressive silence. Vance Ashford wants a proposal? Fine. I’ll give him a proposal so brilliant, meticulously researched, and undeniably profitable that he’ll be unable to deny this is a better option than the one his brothers were suggesting.

I work relentlessly, drafting spreadsheets, market analyses, and projected revenue streams. Even tired, I’m in my element. My fingers fly across the keyboard as I lose myself in the work. Finally finishing, I drain the last of my wine in one long swallow and notice the clock on the microwave reads 1:57 a.m.

After saving the presentation in three different places—the cloud, my email, and the hard drive—I lean back in my chair. I close the laptop with a quiet exhale and rub the ache from the back of my neck with one hand and carry my empty wineglass to the sink.

On my way to bed, I stop at the window to peek through the blinds again, just to reassure myself I’m overthinking the SUV. Peeling back the shade, I let out a relieved sigh when I find the parking space across the street vacant.

Some poor guy was probably just waiting for his girlfriend to get off work or something.

Headlights flare to life at the far end of the block, and I freeze when the same black SUV pulls away from the curb. It passes my window and rounds the corner before disappearing into the night, and a chill crawls over my skin.

It’s just a coincidence. It has to be. There are hundreds—if not thousands—of black Escalades in this city.

I let the blinds fall shut and cross the apartment to check the deadbolt. Twice. Only after I’m satisfied it’s locked do I make my way to the bedroom and crawl between the covers, tugging the comforter to my chin.

My body is heavy with exhaustion, but sleep refuses to come. Every time I close my eyes, the afternoon plays on an endless loop—particularly Vance towering over me. I groan into my pillow as I roll onto my side. “Asshole.”

My phone vibrates, and I nearly wet the bed as every muscle in my body goes rigid. I reach for it, with my heart hammering as though he had actually heard me. When I lift it, a calendar invite glows back at me.

8:00 A.M. — Meeting with Vance Ashford