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I look down at the file.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Do you want me to flag anything?”

“No.”

“All right,” she replies. “Good night again.”

“Good night.”

I end the call and sit there with the file still open in front of me.

I have spent years making sure regret never became an excuse to interfere in Blaire’s life. Now her name has arrived on my desk and she’s about to walk straight back into mine.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Blaire

London looks almost too clear from the back seat of the car. The sky is bright blue, the air sharp enough to make the edges of everything seem cleaner, and for once there is no rain streaking the windows while the city slides past me. After nearly eleven hours in the air, another hour getting through the airport and the slow crawl into central London, I should probably be too tired to care.

Instead, I keep looking. The city is exactly as busy as I remember and completely different at the same time. Black cabs, buses, cyclists cutting through traffic, people crossing against lights because they have somewhere more important to be. I recognize streets without having to think about them, catch glimpses of buildings I know and realize how much of this place is still stored somewhere in me. I haven’t been back since I left. That thought comes and goes without dragging anything behind it.

I rest my head against the seat and check my phone. There are three messages from Hannah, one from my mother, two from Naomi and a photo from Miles that appears to be a close-up of cereal with no explanation. I smile despite myself.

The car turns toward Mayfair, and the hotel comes into view a few minutes later. It is exactly the kind of place my firm books for senior partners handling international clients. Quiet, polished and expensive without feeling like it is trying to impress anyone who walks through the door. The lobby is all pale stone, dark wood and low arrangements of white flowers, and check-in takes less than five minutes.

My suite is on one of the upper floors, with tall windows overlooking rooftops and a narrow stretch of city beyond them. I step inside and immediately understand why the room costs what it does.

The sitting area is large enough to work comfortably without turning the entire suite into an office, and there is a small writing desk tucked into a window alcove with a proper chair, charging ports and enough surface space for my laptop and files. The bedroom is separated by a sliding door, the bathroom is marble and glass, and the wardrobe is deep enough that I can hang everything without living out of my suitcase.

I unpack before I let myself sit down. Two fitted dresses go into the wardrobe first, then three suits, blouses, a black evening dress and the shoes I’ll need for meetings. I put toiletries away, plug in my laptop and line up the folder Charlotte’s team sent against the edge of the desk.

Once everything has a place, the room begins to feel less temporary.

I check the time.

A little after four in the afternoon here means just after eight in the morning in San Francisco.

Perfect.

I tap the FaceTime icon. My mother answers first, her face appearing on the screen with the kitchen behind her.

“There she is,” she says.

“Hi.”

“You look tired.”

“I am tired.”

“That flight is brutal.”

“Thank you for the reminder.”

She laughs and shifts the phone.

“They’re right here.”