Chapter 1
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And you came here after being awake all night?”
“Emergency rate is time and a half.”
For the first time, something almost like a smile touched her mouth.
“What’s your name?”
“Wyatt Sullivan. Maintenance technician. Third class.”
“Third class,” she repeated, looking at him as if the title offended her. “Do you know how much I made yesterday while feeling sorry for myself?”
“I’m guessing more than I make in a year.”
“More than you make in ten.”
“Then you can probably afford better coffee than whatever’s in the break room downstairs.”
The laugh that escaped her surprised them both.
It cracked the air.
Not a boardroom laugh. Not polished. Real.
Wyatt pulled a chair from the small conference table near the windows and sat down. “I’ve got forty-five minutes before that panel needs to be safe. After the night I’ve had, listening is easier than standing.”
Vivien looked at him for a long moment.
Then she talked.
She told him about the board members who still treated her like a child playing dress-up in her father’s office. About old men who called her ruthless when she made the same decisions they had praised in her father. About waking up some mornings and staring at her closet, knowing every outfit was a costume for a woman she wasn’t sure existed anymore.
Wyatt listened.
Not like an employee. Not like someone waiting for instructions.
Like a man who knew what it meant to be tired past pride.
When she finally stopped, the sun was rising over Chicago, turning the glass towers gold.
“I was going to be a physics teacher,” Vivien said quietly. “Before my father died. I had acceptance letters. Plans. A life that didn’t include quarterly earnings calls.”
“What happened?”
“He collapsed in a board meeting. Heart attack. He was fifty-six. One minute he was telling everyone the company would outlive him, and then it did.”
Wyatt leaned back, his work boots looking absurd against the pale carpet. “You stepped in.”
“For a few weeks,” she said. “Then a few months. Then seven years.”
“Do you regret it?”
Vivien stared at the city.
“Every day,” she said. “And not at all.”
Wyatt nodded. “That makes sense.”
She turned to him, surprised.
“My life didn’t go how I planned either,” he said. “Ivy’s mom left two weeks after she was born. Just walked out. I was twenty-four and suddenly responsible for this tiny person who needed everything. I used to think I’d have a house by now. Maybe my own repair business. Instead, I work doubles and build cardboard rocket ships in the living room.”
Vivien’s eyes warmed. “Rocket ships?”
“She wants to be an astronaut, a veterinarian, and a princess. Apparently Mars needs all three.”
This time, Vivien’s smile stayed.
Then Wyatt checked his watch and stood. “I really do need to fix that fire hazard.”
Her face changed. The mask threatened to return.
“Before I go,” he said, “can I say something that’ll probably get me fired?”
“At this point, why stop?”
“Take the armor off sometimes.”
Vivien went still.
“Not in front of them,” Wyatt said. “They don’t deserve it. But somewhere. With someone. Even just ten minutes a day. Because if you wear it all the time, eventually you forget what your own skin feels like.”
She looked away.
“Why are you being kind to me?” she asked.
Wyatt picked up his toolkit. “Because you asked me not to leave.”
Three days later, at 11:47 p.m., his phone buzzed while he sat beside Ivy’s bed watching her sleep.
Unknown number.
Is this really your number, or did you give me a fake one?
Wyatt stared.
Then typed back.
Really mine. Everything okay?
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
No. But I’m sitting on my couch in sweatpants eating mint chocolate chip ice cream straight from the container, so I think I’m trying.
Wyatt smiled despite himself.
If you’re going to be human, commit. Next time get the good stuff from that place on Fifth.
A minute passed.
Thank you, Wyatt Sullivan.
For what?
For seeing me.
He looked at Ivy’s small hand curled around her astronaut bunny.
Then he typed:
Thanks for letting me.
Part 2
The fake maintenance requests started the following week.
Flickering light in Conference Room C.
Wyatt Sullivan requested specifically.
Wyatt showed up with his toolkit at two in the afternoon, knowing before he opened the door that nothing was wrong with the light.
Vivien sat at the head of a table built for twenty people, a laptop open in front of her, her jaw tight enough to crack marble.
“Light looks fine,” Wyatt said.
“I know.” She didn’t look up. “Close the door.”
He did.
“Board meeting in thirty minutes,” she said. “They’re going to fight me on the Portland expansion.”
