THE DEAL'S OVER, MR CEO

**CHAPTER ONE** A GIFT ALLISON | PRESENT TENSE Winter has never been kind to this city, but tonight it feels deliberate. The wind slips beneath my collar, sharp against my cheeks, numbing the fingers wrapped around the small gift box I press to my chest. Still, none of it matters enough to slow me. Every few steps I check the ribbon, smoothing an imaginary crease with my thumb, laughing quietly at my own nervousness. Three months. That is how long it took to save for it. Not because the necklace is extravagant. It is not. People like us simply measure purchases differently. Three months of extra shifts at the café, of walking home instead of taking the bus when the weather allowed, of convincing myself that coffee counted as lunch if I drank it slowly enough. There were evenings when my legs ached so badly I wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed, yet I still smiled every time I imagined my mother’s face when she opened the box. It has been years since I managed to surprise her. The old convenience store comes into view at the end of the street. Its faded sign buzzes softly above windows spilling warm yellow light onto the pavement. Most people see nothing remarkable here — a cramped neighborhood shop with aging shelves and flickering lights. To me it has always looked like home. I grew up between these aisles, doing homework behind the counter while my mother worked double shifts, falling asleep on stacked cartons of bottled water when the hours stretched too long. I learned early that survival is not something people talk about. It is something they practice, quietly, every single day. The bell above the door chimes as I step inside. Warmth chases the cold from my skin. The familiar smell meets me first — fresh coffee, floor disinfectant, cardboard boxes, instant noodles, and the faint sweetness of bread from the bakery next door. Twenty years, and the place still smells exactly the same. Business has slowed to a crawl. Two customers wander the snack aisle, debating potato chip brands. An elderly man stands near the refrigerators, comparing expiration dates on cartons of milk. Behind the counter, my mother faces the sink, sleeves rolled neatly, washing the last of the dishes with the quiet concentration she brings to every task. I do not call out immediately. I stand there watching her instead. The silver threaded through her dark hair catches the fluorescent light. The slight curve of her shoulders. The realization that somewhere between endless shifts and worrying about bills, my mother has grown older while I was not paying enough attention. A dull ache settles beneath my ribs. She is only forty-four. Life has no business making her look this tired. “Mom.” Without turning around, she answers as though she has known I was standing here the entire time. “You’re late.” I smile. “I missed you too.” “I saw you yesterday.” “So? People are allowed to miss each other overnight.” “They’re also allowed to arrive on time.” I laugh, slipping behind the counter and resting my elbows on it while she rinses another cup. “You know, most mothers would start with something sentimental.” She glances sideways. Her expression is calm, unreadable. “Did you eat?” Of course. Not hello. Not how was work. Not I missed you. Just the same question she has asked almost every day of my life. “I did,” I lie. Her eyes narrow. She knows. “No, you didn’t.” “I absolutely did.” “What did you eat?” “…Food.” “Allison.” “It was edible.” She sighs, sets the cup aside, and folds her arms. “You skipped lunch again.” “I had coffee.” “Coffee is not lunch.” “It was a large coffee.” The corners of her mouth threaten to lift. Barely. It is gone almost before I see it. Still, I take the victory. She shakes her head. The ghost of that almost-smile disappears. “One day you’re going to discover that sarcasm doesn’t count as nutrition.” “I’ll make a note of it.” “You won’t.” “I probably won’t.” A quiet huff escapes her — somewhere between a sigh and reluctant amusement — and she turns back to the sink. It is the closest thing to laughter she allows herself these days. I watch her for another moment before remembering why I came. The little box suddenly feels heavier in my hands. I have imagined this moment so many times over the past three months. In every version she smiles first. Sometimes she cries. Once, in a particularly optimistic fantasy, she even hugs me. Reality, I suspect, will not be nearly as generous. “I have something for you.” She does not turn immediately. “What did you forget?” “I didn’t forget anything.” “Then what is it?” I step forward and place the neatly wrapped box on the counter between us. The ribbon has shifted again. I straighten it without thinking. My mother follows the movement with her eyes. Confusion. Then recognition. Then the familiar concern that has lived behind nearly every decision she has made since I was old enough to remember. “What is this?” “A birthday present.” A pause so slight another person might not notice it. Then she looks up. “Why?” I laugh softly. “Because today’s your birthday.” “I know that.” “Well… that’s your answer.” “It isn’t.” The warmth in my smile falters. “You shouldn’t have bought me anything.” “You haven’t even opened it.” “I don’t need to.” “You might like it.” “That’s not the point.” Her voice remains calm, but I know that tone. It is not anger. This is the quiet voice she uses when she is already calculating consequences. She dries her hands carefully, then reaches for the box. Turns it over once, as though its weight alone might tell her how much I spent. I hold my breath. She loosens the ribbon. Unfolds the paper with almost painful care. Inside, resting against black velvet, lies the silver necklace — a delicate chain with a small crescent moon pendant. The first time I saw it, I thought of her immediately. Of the nights we climbed onto the roof during power outages when I was small. Of the stories she invented about the moon so I would not be afraid of the dark. Only years later did I realize she had been making every one of them up. Her thumb brushes lightly over the pendant. For the first time since I walked into the shop, her guard slips. Just enough for me to see the woman beneath the worry. It lasts only a heartbeat. Then she asks quietly, “How much did this cost?” The question settles between us with all the inevitability of winter. “It wasn’t that expensive.” “Allison.” “I’ve been saving.” “That isn’t what I asked.” I smile, hoping I can steer us back toward the evening I imagined. “It doesn’t matter.” “It matters to me.” There is no accusation in her voice. Only fear. The old, familiar kind that has followed us from one apartment to the next, from overdue bills to empty refrigerators, from every month that somehow ended before the money did. “Can you just tell me whether you like it?” She looks at the necklace again. When she speaks, her voice is so soft I almost wish she had shouted instead. “I love it.” Hope blooms inside me. “…But?” She closes the box. Carefully. Almost tenderly. “But I’m afraid of what it cost you.” The words settle gently between us. There is no anger in them, only a fear so familiar it almost belongs to the walls around us. I smile anyway. “It cost exactly what I wanted to spend.” Her eyes lift to mine. “No,” she says softly. “It cost more than that.” I know what she means. Not the number. Everything behind it. The lunches I claimed I was not hungry for. The bus rides replaced with long walks home through the cold. The overtime shifts that left me stumbling into bed long after midnight only to wake before sunrise and do it all again. She had not seen any of it. Somehow she had seen all of it. “I wasn’t suffering.” “You were sacrificing.” “So were you.” “I was the parent.” “And I’m your daughter.” The answer escapes before I can soften it. She looks away first. Outside, headlights drift across the front windows before disappearing into the darkness. Somewhere near the refrigerators, the old compressor kicks to life with a tired groan. Finally, she pushes the necklace back toward me. “You should return it.” For a second I simply stare at the box. “I don’t want to return it.” “I know.” “I bought it for you.” “I know.” “Then why won’t you keep it?” She draws a slow breath, fingers folding together as though she needs something to hold on to. “Because every time you spend money on me, I wonder what you gave up to do it.” Something tightens inside my chest. “You make it sound like loving you is irresponsible.” Her head snaps up. “Don’t.” “What?” “Don’t say things like that.” “Why not?” The words slip out before I can stop them. “Isn’t that what this always becomes?” “It becomes survival.” “It becomes guilt.” She rests both hands against the counter, shoulders rising with a slow breath that seems to carry the weight of years. “You think I enjoy saying no to you?” “No.” “You think I wanted you to grow up counting every dollar before you spent it?” “No.” “You think this is the life I imagined?” The questions come quietly. Almost gently. That hurts more than if she had shouted. “I know you didn’t.” “Do you?” Her eyes search my face. “I was twenty years old when your father walked away,” she says, voice steady. “One day I thought I had a family. The next day I had overdue rent, a six-month-old baby, and exactly thirty-eight dollars in my purse.” I lower my eyes. She rarely speaks about those years. “I didn’t have time to dream anymore,” she continues. “Dreams are expensive. Babies are more expensive.” A humorless smile crosses her face. “So I learned the difference between what we wanted and what we needed.” “And somewhere along the way,” I murmur, “you decided they couldn’t be the same thing.” Silence stretches. Long enough that I wonder if she will answer at all. When she finally does, her voice is impossibly small. “I decided wanting too much was dangerous.” The sentence lingers in the air between us. Not because it is dramatic. Because it is true. Not just for her. For us. I look around the store. The shelves she repaired herself. The old coffee machine she has kept running for nearly fifteen years. The register that jams unless you hit it just right. Nothing here has been replaced. Everything has simply been kept alive. Just like us. A strange sadness settles over me. The quiet kind that arrives after you understand something you can no longer unknow. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life surviving,” I say. She closes her eyes briefly. Neither does she. I can see it. She just does not know another way. “I want…” My voice falters. “I want to stop apologizing every time I buy something that isn’t absolutely necessary. I want to stop feeling guilty because I like pretty dresses or because I wonder what it would be like to travel somewhere I’ve never been. I want to buy you a birthday present without feeling like I’ve committed a crime.” A tired breath escapes her. “You think I taught you guilt.” “I think…” I swallow. “I think you taught me fear.”