Part 2:
“People didn’t do things for free in her world,” he guessed. “Everything had a price tag.” “Thank you,” she said finally, and it sounded like the words didn’t come easily. “Really? I was about to walk back to the main road. In those shoes, you’d have made it maybe 10 ft. that almost smile again. Probably thunder rolled overhead and Ethan realized he was standing in the middle of a storm soaking wet with a stranger who drove a car worth more than his entire shop. And he was late.
Very late. I have to go, he said, backing toward his truck. But drive careful. That relay might hold, but get it properly checked soon. Wait. Vivian took a step forward. At least let me give you my card in case I need a mechanic who actually fixes things. She pulled a slim wallet from her coat and handed him a business card.
Even in the dark, even soaked, it was clearly expensive. Heavy stock embossed lettering. He didn’t read it, just shoved it in his pocket. Sure. Yeah. Good luck. He was in his truck, engine running before she could say anything else. Through the rearview mirror, he watched her standing there in the rain. Umbrella forgotten at her side, watching him drive away.
His phone buzzed. A text from Sarah. Where are you? She’s waiting. Ethan punched the gas. The truck fishtailing slightly on the wet road before finding traction. He was now officially 40 minutes late, covered in mud and road water, and smelling like he’d taken a bath in motor oil. This date was going to be a disaster.
Vivien Hart stood in the rain and watched the battered truck disappear around the corner, its taillight swallowed by the storm. She was still holding the umbrella, though it wasn’t doing much good anymore. Her coat was soaked through, her shoes were definitely ruined, and her carefully styled hair was a lost cause.
But the car was running. That strange, grease- stained man had fixed it in under 10 minutes, refused payment, and vanished like some kind of bluecollar ghost. She should get back in the Jaguar, drive to the restaurant where Marcus was probably already waiting, nursing his second whiskey and checking his Rolex every 30 seconds.
This blind date had been Catherine’s idea, her assistant, who’d somehow decided that Viven’s personal life was a project that needed managing. “He’s perfect,” Catherine had insisted. “Investment banker, Colombia MBA, knows all the right people. translation. Boring. Safe. Exactly like the last five men Catherine had set her up with.
Viven looked down at the business card she’d handed the mechanic. She’d grabbed the wrong stack this morning. These were her corporate cards, the ones with CEO, Heart Industries, printed below her name. He’d shoved it in his pocket without even glancing at it. He had no idea who she was. The thought was more refreshing than it should have been.
She got back in the car, cranked the heat to maximum, and pulled onto the road. The engine hummed smoothly, perfectly, like it hadn’t just stranded her in the middle of nowhere. Through the rain streaked windshield, Seattle’s downtown lights emerged. Restaurants, highrises, the familiar landscape of power and money and careful conversations that meant nothing. Her phone buzzed.
Marcus running 15 minutes late. Order without me if you’re there. She almost laughed. 15 minutes late after she’d been stuck on the roadside for over an hour. That was Marcus. Chronically late, chronically self-absorbed, chronically convinced that his time was worth more than anyone else’s. Viven pulled into the parking garage beneath canless, the kind of restaurant where reservations were made months in advance, and the weight staff could smell desperation from across the room.
She sat in the car for a moment, engine idling, watching well-dressed couples hurry through the rain toward the entrance. She didn’t want to be here. The realization hit her with surprising clarity. She didn’t want to sit across from Marcus and pretend to be interested in his portfolio or his last trip to the Maldes or whatever corporate acquisition he was currently orchestrating.
She didn’t want to smile at his mediocre jokes or deflect his hand when it inevitably found her knee under the table. But Catherine would ask how it went. And the board members who thought she was too young, too cold, too focused on business would whisper about how Viven Hart couldn’t even maintain a personal life.
and her mother would call with that particular tone of disappointment reserved for daughters who chosen empires over families. So Viven checked her reflection in the rearview mirror, fixed her smudged mascara with her thumb, and stepped out into the rain one more time. The restaurant was exactly as she’d expected.
Soft lighting, expensive art, tables positioned for maximum privacy and minimum genuine connection. The matrae recognized her immediately. Ms. Hart, your table is ready. Your companion hasn’t arrived yet. Of course he hasn’t. She followed him through the dining room, past couples leaning close over candle light, past businessmen closing deals over aged whiskey to a corner table with a view of the city lights bleeding through the rain.
She ordered a gin martini and checked her phone. A text from Catherine. Good luck. Be charming. Viven almost threw the phone across the room. Instead, she opened her email and tried to focus on the quarterly reports that had been waiting since this afternoon. Revenue was up. Expenses were down. The expansion into Southeast Asian markets was proceeding ahead of schedule.
