1.

Ash

I should be on top of the world.

I’m sitting in the backseat of a limo gliding through the streets of Manhattan, with my CFO on the other end of the phone delivering me the news I’ve been waiting for: that our deal just closed. The deal. The last penthouse unit in our New York City high-rise development sold out before we even finished construction.

“It’s unheard of in this real estate market,” Emmett whoops. I can hear noise in the background; he’s already out partying with the news. “But you pulled it off. At top dollar too!”

“It’s signed and sealed?” I check, not wanting to relax too soon.

“Contracts are on my desk. You did it, Callahan,” he laughs, sounding impressed. “I know I said you were crazy, taking a risk like this, but I’ll happily eat my words.”

“No need for that.” I stop him. “It’s your job to be my voice of reason.”

“And help count all the cash,” Emmett whoops again, and I wonder how many drinks he’s already had. “Come on down and celebrate, the whole office is out.”

“Can’t. Charity gala,” I explain. “But buy them all drinks on the company. And tell them nobody works the weekend, either.”

“You mean we’ll actually get a day off for a change?” Emmett cracks. “You are in a good mood.”

“You all deserve the break. But fax me the contracts, I want to look them over before Monday.”

“Will do,” Emmett replies. “Now you go have fun, boss—you’ve earned it.”

I hang up and let the news sink in. This development has been the biggest gamble of my career. I put everything on the line, and now it’s finally paid off. The 24/7 work weeks, the year spent checking fine print and architectural plans, sweet-talking permit departments and begging every last cent from banks—it’s all worth it now.

I’ll never have to worry again, not like the old days back when it was a struggle just to keep a roof over my family’s heads. I was fresh out of business school, barely a man, when tragedy struck. Suddenly, I had the weight of the world on my shoulders, and nobody but me to take the responsibility. I would wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, wondering how the hell I was going to keep my siblings off the streets and make a life for us without our parents around.

But not anymore. Now I have offices in two cities and successful developments across the whole country. New York Magazine named me one of their “30 Under 30,” and now this is the deal that’s going to take me to the next level. Make my real estate development company untouchable, a force to be reckoned with.

I should be happy. I should be out drinking with the rest of my employees, toasting our success.

So why do I feel so numb? A hollow ache in my chest where the joy belongs; nothing but an abstract sense of accomplishment instead of fierce pride or relief.

The car suddenly stops, and my driver’s voice breaks through my thoughts. “We’re here, Mr. Callahan.”

I look around. We’ve pulled up outside the famous front steps of the Met museum, just off Central Park. “Just a minute,” I tell him, checking my email again. I’m in no great hurry to get to the party. By now, I know these big charity events are all the same: I’ll spend the evening making polite conversation with socialites and their banker husbands, eating flimsy hors d’oeuvres and bidding on overpriced auction items. I would happily stay at the office, cramming in a couple more hours of work, but the contacts I make at these events are invaluable. The people here tonight can make the difference between a permit approval or months of red tape; a glowing write-up in a glossy magazine, or a snarky gossip column.

Besides, I’m supposed to be celebrating, aren’t I?

I finally tuck my phone away and get out of the car. “No need to wait around,” I tell my driver, Frankie, through the front window. He’s got a wife and kids at home, so I try not to keep him too late. “I’ll catch a cab later. One of us should have a decent Friday night, at least.”

“Thanks, boss.” Frankie grins. “And congrats.”

He drives away and is quickly replaced with another limo, disgorging a crowd of people in tuxes and evening gowns. They climb the steps to the museum, fixing something to their faces. This is a themed event tonight, a masquerade, so I pull the black bandana from my pocket and fix it over my eyes, adjusting the position so I can see.

That’s when I notice a woman in the middle of the street.

She’s dressed for the party too, in a dark blue cocktail dress and heels, but she’s not moving: she’s yanking at her foot, looking like she’s about to topple right over. The lights are red down the block; the street is empty of traffic for a moment.

“Is everything OK?” I call, approaching her.

She looks up, her face illuminated in the glow of the street lights. Blue eyes focus on me, her dark blonde hair pinned back from a heart-shaped face—which right now is frowning in annoyance. “My heel is stuck!” she exclaims. “Damn shoe. This is why I always wear flats. That, and my mother always taught me to never wear shoes I can’t run away in.”

She yanks her leg again, and I can see the heel of her jeweled pump is caught in the grate.

“Your mother sounds like a treat.” I catch hold of her arm to steady her.

The woman looks amused. “She’s a New Yorker born and raised,” she says, eyes sparkling with mirth. “Plus, she wanted to prepare me for men and their beastly ways.”