NATALIA
I had packed the night before without any enthusiasm. I folded blouses and matched shoes and tucked my toiletry bag into the side pocket and the entire time I was doing it, I was mentally drafting the quarterly review memo I could have been working on instead.
Paris in February.
A Valentine's campaign for a travel agency that my father had championed.
A week away from Diamond at a time when I had barely finished settling into the role and already had more on my plate than any ten people could reasonably manage.
It made no sense.
But the tickets had been bought, the hotel was booked and my father had personally confirmed the itinerary three times in the past four days.
I zipped the suitcase and went to bed and stared at the ceiling for an hour before I finally fell asleep.
