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I keep hearing the way she said it in my office, not angry at first, just frustrated that I’d made a decision involving her without asking. I can defend the logic. I can defend the efficiency. I can even defend the instinct behind it. What I can’t defend is the fact that I never gave her a choice. That bothers me more than the argument itself.

By the second night, I’m lying awake in the hotel with tomorrow’s briefing open on the nightstand, staring at the ceiling instead of reading it.

I’ve had people angry with me before; Employees. Partners. Investors. My father. I’ve never cared this much about fixing it. That realization sits with me longer than I want it to. Blaire’s opinion matters to me in a way I’m not used to accounting for. Not professionally. Not because she’s part of the project. Personally.

By the time I fly back to London the next evening, the Brussels problem is under control. The one waiting for me at home isn’t.

I land in London just after six and spend less than an hour at my flat before I realize I’m not going to accomplish anything there.

By eight, I’m outside of Blaire’s building. I call her from the pavement and wait through three rings before she answers.

“Hi,” she says.

“Are you home?” I ask.

There’s a brief pause. “Yes.”

“I’m downstairs.”

Another pause follows, longer this time.

“Come up,” she says.

She’s waiting at the door when I reach her floor, dressed casually in a soft sweater and leggings, her hair pulled back from her face. She steps aside without saying anything, and I walk into the apartment.

For a moment, neither of us speaks.

Then Blaire closes the door and looks at me.

“How was Brussels?”

“Productive.”

“That’s good.”

“It was also shorter than planned.”

Her expression changes slightly, but she doesn’t comment. I take a breath.

“I shouldn’t have booked the trip for you without asking.”

Blaire watches me carefully.

“I thought I was making things easier,” I continue.

“I’d already worked out the logistics in my head, and by the time I involved you, I’d treated the decision like it had already been made.”

“It had been,” she says.

“Yes,” I reply. “That was the problem.”

Her shoulders relax a fraction.

“I wasn’t trying to tell you that your work didn’t matter,” I say.

“I know it does. I also know you’re perfectly capable of deciding what you can and can’t move around.”

Blaire looks down for a second, then back at me.