Page 14 of His Daughter

He just asked me out. Just like that. No lead-up. No careful reading of the room. Just have dinner with me tonight, like he was asking for the time. Like rejection wasn't even a possibility he'd considered.

I didn't know whether to be annoyed or impressed. Maybe both. Maybe I was just jealous of the guts it took to say something like that with a straight face. I couldn't remember the last time I'd wanted anything that plainly, that unapologetically.

The elevator opened. Margot sat on a leather bench in the lobby, arms crossed, eyebrows exactly where I'd left them.

She studied my face. "What happened?"

"He's funding the program."

Margot's mouth fell open. "Are you serious?"

"And he asked me to dinner."

"And?"

"I said no."

Margot stared at me. "Why?"

"I just got divorced. I'm not ready. He's — " I gestured at the building around us. "He's this. This world. This kind of man. I know how this goes, Margot. I watched my mother ride this carousel my entire life."

Margot grabbed my shoulders, her fingers digging into my blazer, and pulled me close enough to see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes and the red lipstick that had survived the entire morning without smudging.

"Thea, listen to me. That man is not your mother's boyfriend, and you are not your mother." Her voice dropped. "Now get your ass back in that elevator and say yes."

"But — "

"Thea. Move. Now."

My feet stayed planted. My heart was in my throat. My palms were damp. I wiped them on my slacks.

Margot spun me around and pointed toward the elevator.

I turned. I walked back. I pressed the button and rode up. The numbers climbed above the door — fourteen, fifteen, sixteen — and my reflection stared back at me. I smoothed my dark curls. My eyes were dark, bloodshot. I slapped my face, trying to force color into my skin.

The doors opened. I walked down the corridor. The assistant saw me coming, stood from his desk, and opened the office door without a word.

I stood in the doorway. My hands shook at my sides. I pressed them against my thighs.

"Yes. I'll go to dinner with you."

FIVE

DECLAN

I was on my second dress shirt, which was a problem.

I looked at the first one — white silk — draped over the back of the chair where I'd left it twenty minutes ago. The second dress shirt was also white, with good fabric, and open at the collar. The difference was negligible.

I put the cufflinks in anyway, brushed my jacket, and checked my Patek, not the Rolex, because the latter said boardroom, and this wasn't that. I set it against my wrist, and the clasp clicked into place.

I pushed the lock of hair back from my forehead. It fell forward again. I left it.

My car waited downstairs. I drove to Coltrane’s, an exclusive Italian restaurant on the right side of town, arriving ten minutes early because I was a gentleman and would never keep a lady waiting.

The host led me to the table I'd requested — the corner, angled toward the door, the seat that faced the room. I ordered sparkling water and the Barolo I already knew I wanted, then sat back and let the music settle around me. I watched the door until she walked in at exactly seven.

She paused at the top of the steps and scanned the room. The candlelight caught her from above — the gold studs at her ears, the line of her collarbone above the neckline of her dress. The dress was orange, simple, fitted through the waist, and falling to just below the knee. She wore low heels that made her appear taller. Her hair was up.