Page 5 of Breadwinner

It wasn’t a call. She had known that when she’d made her excuse to leave. It was a text.

UNKNOWN NUMBER 9:04 PM

Dinner. Tomorrow, 8 PM. I’ll send a car. – Nell

Sarah’s brain screeched to a halt.

“What the?” she said under her breath.

She stared at the message as if she could intimidate it into further explanation, the same way she would when cross-examining witnesses. She was still processing Nell’s message when a sensation prickled at the back of her neck, a quiet awareness that someone was watching her.

She looked up, and there she was.

Nell Stanhope.

Across the room, she was calm and composed, her steel-blue gaze locked on to her, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips as she lifted her glass in a deliberate acknowledgment.

Sarah felt the weight of it—the unspoken challenge and invitation wrapped in that single motion.

She swallowed.

What have you gotten yourself into?her mind whispered. She wasn’t sure, but she was intrigued as hell.

That dinner couldn’t come soon enough.

TWO

NELL

Nell Stanhope never rushed. She made it a point to move through the world as though it were always waiting for her, because that’s how she liked it.

At forty-six, she had built herself a multi-billion-dollar empire. She began her career in private equity, learning early how to be aggressive and identify even the most minor cracks in a deal. Venture capital had come next. Overhyped, yes, but with that hype came leverage in the form of the impressive portfolio of companies under her belt. The pivot into women’s sports had been purely strategic at first. Buying the Philadelphia Freedom got her in the door of an underestimated and undervalued industry that she was able to shape, setting the gold standard for the development and treatment of female athletes.

The cool Seattle air hit her as she stepped out of a black town car. Across the street, towering glass windows reflected the city’s looming skyline, a sleek, modern contrast to the historic brick facade of the boutique hotel she had chosen for the weekend purely based on how the light hit the lobby at sunset and how the concierge remembered her coffee—black, one sugar.

A doorman greeted her by name, tipping his hat.

“Good evening, Ms. Stanhope.”

“Nell,” she corrected smoothly, offering a small smile. “How’s your granddaughter, Peter?”

“She’s doing well, thank you.” Peter’s face lit up at the mention of his granddaughter. “She recently got accepted into NYU.”

“Very impressive.” Nell paused at the entrance. “If she ever needs an internship, tell her to call me. Always happy to support a fellow bobcat.”

Peter blinked, momentarily stunned. “NYU? You? That’s incredibly generous of you.”

Nell nodded. It wasn’t generosity; it was an investment. She believed all women deserved to have doors opened for them. She had spent her entire life breaking down every door she came up against. It was the least she could do for the women who came after her.

Her heels clicked against the marble floors as she stepped inside the building, and she smiled because she had been right. The evening light looked exquisite, bathing the lobby in a golden glow.

The penthouse elevator required a key card, hers was already in hand. When she reached the top floor, her chief of staff, Rowan Mills, was waiting for her.

“Rowan.” She greeted the woman with a slight tilt of her chin.

“Nell.” Rowan handed her a slim tablet. “Quick rundown before I’m gone for the evening. I’ve gone ahead and annotated the VYSE deck; I flagged the sections you’ll want to revisit. Todd Thurman called again—I bought you time—and Senator Fairchild says she can give you thirty minutes if you’re back in DC by seven tomorrow.”

Nell gave a dry laugh. “How accommodating of her.”