The elevator ride down felt longer than the one up. I leaned against the mirrored wall, heart pounding, lips still tingling from his kiss. My reflection stared back at me—flushed, wide-eyed, messy hair framing a face I barely recognized. The woman in the glass wasn’t me, or at least not the version I’d been for years. She looked like someone who had been rewired, like someone who’d glimpsed a piece of herself she hadn’t known was there.
When the doors opened, a driver was waiting—silent, professional. He held the back door of a sleek black car for me, and I slid inside, pulse still hammering. The seat was warm, the leather soft, but the silence in the car was deafening. No small talk. No music. Just the hum of the engine and the echo of Branson’s voice in my head.
You’re going to leave t
