“You need to eat,” she said, not waiting for my response before closing my office door behind her.
I unwrapped the sandwich absently, my eyes still fixed on the contract language I was revising. The Halston acquisition would bring in seven figures in billable hours for the firm. Eight, if we could close before the end of the quarter.
At 3:30 p.m., I stood in the boardroom, addressing our team of associates.
“The OSC filing needs to be airtight. I want three separate reviews before it crosses my desk.” I fixed my gaze on the newest associate, fresh out of law school, who was frantically taking notes. “Mitchell, you’ll handle the first pass.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Richards.”
“I’ll need it by 8 a.m. tomorrow.”
The young man’s eyes widened slightly, but he nodded. “Of course.”
I dismissed the meeting and returned to my office, closing the door. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I could see the Toronto skyline, the CN Tower standing like an exclamation point against the blue September sky. From this height, the city looked like a perfect model, everything in its place.
Just like my life.
By 7:45 p.m., the office had emptied. Even Sandra had gone home, leaving a note reminding me about a breakfast meeting tomorrow. I continued working, the soft glow of my desk lamp the only light besides the city’s twinkling skyline.
At 9:17 p.m., I finally closed my laptop. The Halston documents were as good as they were going to get tonight. I stood, stretching musclesstiff from hours of sitting, and gathered my things.
The drive home took twelve minutes at this hour. The house was dark when I pulled into the circular driveway, motion sensors triggering the exterior lights as I approached the front door.
Inside, I dropped my keys in the silver bowl on the entryway table—a piece from the 1890s that I’d found at an auction—and headed straight for the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, I stared at the mostly empty shelves. A bottle of white wine. Some condiments. A container of week-old Thai food that looked questionable.
I closed the refrigerator and opened the freezer instead. A stack of frozen meals and a half-empty bottle of vodka greeted me. I grabbed one of the meals—chicken something—and tossed it in the microwave.
While it heated, I loosened my tie and poured myself two fingers of Macallan 18 from the nearby liquor cabinet. The first sip burned pleasantly as it went down. The second was even smoother.
The microwave beeped. I retrieved the steaming plastic tray and carried it, along with my scotch, to the dining room. The massive mahogany table, which could seat sixteen, gleamed in the dim light. I sat at the head, as always, my meal looking absurdly small on the vast expanse of polished wood.
As I ate, I scrolled through work emails on my phone. Nothing urgent. Nothing that couldn’t wait until morning. I set the phone down and looked around the silent room.
The house had seven bedrooms, four bathrooms, a library, a formal living room, and a sun-room. All meticulously decorated. All perfectly maintained. All completely unused except by me.
I’d dated, of course. There had been Robert, the art dealer, two years ago. He’d lasted three months before complaining that I was “emotionally unavailable.” Before him, there was Michael, the surgeon, who’d ended things after six months, saying we were “on different life paths.” And before that, James, who’d simply stopped callingafter I cancelled our weekend plans for the third time due to work.
My last serious relationship had been with Christopher, during my second year as an associate. He’d moved in, bringing warmth and chaos to my orderly life. For a while, it had worked. Until the Anderson case had consumed me for six straight months, and I’d come home one day to find his things gone and a note on the kitchen counter.
I can’t compete with your career. I won’t try anymore.
I hadn’t tried again after that. It was easier this way. Cleaner. More efficient for everyone involved.
I finished my meal and my scotch, rinsed the glass, and tossed the empty tray in the recycling. It was nearly 11 p.m. now. I should sleep. Tomorrow would be another day just like this one.
As I climbed the grand staircase to the second floor, my phone rang. I glanced at the screen, not recognizing the number. Probably a client calling from overseas. I answered, my professional voice automatically engaging.
“Damian Richards.”
“It’s Natalie Wong.”
I paused on the landing, genuinely surprised. Natalie and I had been close in law school—study partners, occasional drinking buddies, confidants during the stress of finals. But our paths had diverged dramatically after graduation. She’d chosen public service, working for the public defender’s office, while I’d gone the corporate route.
“Natalie? It’s been what, two years?”
“At least.” There was a pause. “I need your help, Damian.”
I continued up the stairs, curious despite myself. “Professional or personal?”
