THE CONTRACT HE NEVER FORGOT

The doors to the elevator opened at the forty second floor, and the air shifted. It had the smell of something pricey. Clean. Cold. Like unearned money. I came out with my portfolio clutched in front of me. My heels tapped loud and fast on the black marble, and I deliberately slowed, taking my time. No rushing, no panicking trying to be convincing. This contract was mine. I was not that woman, begging for handouts, five years ago. There was a tall woman in a cream suit, standing by the glass wall. She examined me with one swift, sweeping gaze- from head to toe, in just a second she must have estimated how much my outfit cost and the worth of my shoes. "Ms. Marlowe?" "Yes." "Mr. Vale awaits you. This way." She spun around, without hesitation. I did as well. The hallway was long and empty. Tall windows framed the city beneath the grey sky of an afternoon. Everything inside the Vale building was crisp and clean and made it seem dirt was not permitted to stay in this place. My fingers found the spot on my portfolio where the old silver ring sat deep inside a tiny hidden pocket. I had no idea why I still carried it. Habit, perhaps. Maybe stubbornness. I should have given it away years ago. The woman was standing in front of a door and she knocked on a wide black door once. From within a deep voice responded. "Come in." She pushed the door open and stepped aside. I entered. The office was enormous. Dark wood. Floor-to-ceiling glass. A desk that appeared to have been cut from the heart of a moonless night. And behind that desk sat the man who owns half the city. Adrian Vale. He didn't stand when I came in, he just raised his eyes from the papers before him. The first thing I noticed was how still he was. The most powerful men I'd ever seen flooded the room with noise and movement. He stood silently, filling it. Dark hair. Jutted jaw. Eyes so dark they looked like soaked stone. A black shirt, rolled once at the wrists, no tie it was like the idea of trying too hard bored him. I felt something wrench across my chest. I had seen him in the business section for the past few years. That was the face every woman in the city knew. But being that close to him was different. The space between us felt different. I was a couple of steps away from the desk when I halted. He stared at me. Not the polite stare. The kind that dissected everything. "'Elena Marlowe', " he said. His voice was low but steady. "I don't think you're older than I thought." "I am thirty, " I told him. "Old enough to alter the private floors of a man who has never been happy with anything anyone else has ever done." One of his eyebrows raised just the slightest bit. That was almost a reaction. Almost. He relaxed in his chair. "Sit" I sat down. The chair was softer than it appeared. I set my portfolio down on the table between us. Flipped it open. My hands were steady. I had run through it all a million times in my head. 'These initial ideas were mine, ' I said. 'Three directions. Clean modern, warm classic and in-between. That sounds like your style.’ He never looked at the drawings immediately. He kept looking at me. 'How did you manage to get this job?' he said. "My work." "People have stronger work. We have chosen you over companies with twenty years more experience." "Then the board has a great taste." I said. A whisper of a sound escaped. Not exactly a laugh. No more than air trying to become one. He eventually selected the portfolio and opened the first page. He had long and delicate fingers. No wedding ring. No jewellery at all. I looked at his face as he examined the drawing. Nothing slowed. No comment, no judger; only peaceful attention. My heart was pounding in my throat. I hated that. I'd dealt with hard customers before. Men who thought being rich were important, and didn't mind telling me so. Women who smiled at me while trying to cut me off. None of them had ever turned the base of my neck so hot. He looked at the page he had turned. " You've got a kid, " he said. My fingers curled up against my skirt. "Yeah." "How old?" "Four." He gave a single nod as if storing the information. Then, he looked up. "Does the father help?" The question hit like a stone in a pond. I shaved my face. Negative. There was some movement in his eyes and I couldn't exactly name what that meant. He handed the portfolio back to me. "They're good, " he said. "Better than the previous three firms that sat in this chair. But good is not enough for me. I want the private floors to feel like a home I can breathe. Not like yet another showroom." "I have the ability to do that." "Can you?" "Yes." He examined me once more. And so silence filled the room. I didn't fill it. Let him be the one to open his mouth first. And finally he said, "You'll begin on Monday. Full access to all the residential floors. My assistant will prepare security passes and the current layouts. I want you here daily until this is complete. If you have to bring your daughter, there is a private quarters on the fortieth floor we can set up." I blinked. Clients generally loathe having kids around their luxurious spaces. "That is generous." “That's practical,” he corrected. "I am not looking for any further excuses about a woman having children stopping this project." I arose and gathered my folder. "Is there anything else, Mr. Vale?" He got to his feet then. Very slowly. Taller than I'd thought. The black shirt strained across broad shoulders, as he rounded the desk. He lingered uncomfortably close. I had to tilt my chin up to look into his eyes. But real close, I saw a narrow pale stripe across the left side of his collarbone, half obscured by the spread collar of his shirt. A scar. Instantly, my stomach knotted for no clear reason. He spoke in a quiet voice. "Ms. Marlowe, you are quite familiar to me." The words were soft. My lips went dry as I slowly spoke the answer. "Oh, I have one of those faces." That did not smile. He responded, "no." "You do not." I took one step back. "I should go. My daughter finishes school soon." He looked at me for a moment longer. Then he nodded. "Monday. Nine. Be on time." "I will" I spun around and headed for the door. My heels echoed across the marble. I knew his gaze followed me all the way. His voice sounded through the air as I laid my hand on the door handle. "Ms. Marlowe." I glanced back. Adrian Vale was still standing where I'd left him, one hand leaned on his desk edge, looking at me with such a stare that made my arm hairs prickle. "the ring you carry in your portfolio, " he said. My heart almost stopped. There was no way he could have seen it. The pocket was zipped. The portfolio had not been opened broadly. But his eyes remained fixed. "Where did you get it?" It was the kind of question that whistled when you said it into the air over a hundred-dollar pint of beer. I spoke. There was no sound. A cloud drifted between the sun and the wide windows outside, and suddenly the entire office was cast in shadow. Adrian Vale was waiting. For the first time in five years, I wasn't certain if I could run.