Page 9 of Dante (Members From Money Season 2. #153)

It was time to start thinking about her future.

Sitting around the counter, she reached for a notebook and pencil she kept there.

The job was good. No, she shook her head.

It was excellent. It was demanding and challenging, and she loved it.

It paid extremely well. When she first saw the compensation package, she had to stop herself from dancing with glee.

She was earning what top executives earned.

The health insurance was the best she had ever come across.

No co-pay at all. Even if she had the urge to get plastic surgery done, not that she ever would of course!

It would be paid for. Say what you will about Dante Livingston, but the man takes care of his staff. No wonder they were so loyal.

She looked around the tiny kitchen and focused on the herbs she had planted.

Which reminded her that she hadn't watered them in days.

Hopping off the stool, she turned off the flame and grabbed a watering can.

It still hit her like a ton of bricks that she had her own place.

That she was so different from the frightened girl in that group home.

The one who used to stop herself from crying for her mother.

The same girl who had clung to her brother when the bullying had started.

She was no longer wearing cast-offs. But could buy her own. She had her own home. It had taken all her savings for the opening and closing cost, but she had wanted her own place. Her brother had said it had to do with the fact that they never had a home, and he was probably right.

She pressed her palm to the glass, watching the city's pulse reflected in the window, her own silhouette a silent witness to everything she had clawed her way through.

This house, secondhand, cramped, cluttered with mismatched mugs and fading grocery lists, was the sum of a hundred small victories.

Every inch felt claimed by effort, by sacrifice, by nights spent staring at the low ceiling and imagining escape routes.

She watered the basil and mint, running her thumb over a bruise on a leaf, thinking absently of old wounds and the ones that never quite healed.

The kettle shrieked, scattering her thoughts, so she poured the water, honey swirling gold in the steam, and took her cup to the window.

The ritual steadied her. With the city spread out before her, she could finally let the tension drain from her shoulders.

She let herself imagine, just briefly, a future written in her own careful hand. One where she chose the terms, where her past didn't dictate every move. That was the real luxury: not the salary or the insurance or even the sturdy lock on the door, but the freedom to decide what came next.

Her brother had gone the opposite way. He had told her bluntly that he did not need permanency.

He preferred to think of the place he stayed as somewhere to lay his head.

But he could afford that sentiment. He was hardly ever there.

She knew he still suffered from extreme bitterness after being left in that group home.

She still had nightmares. Pressing a hand on her flat stomach, she imagined she could feel the life growing inside her.

The man had gone, but she was starting to grow accustomed to thinking of this baby as her own. All her own.

Outside, a siren wailed, fading into the distance. She jotted a single line in her notebook, something about possibility, about not letting ghosts have the last word. Then she closed her eyes and breathed, letting the quiet fill her until she felt almost new.

He was restless and edgy. Had been ever since he woke up this morning. If he hadn't made a direct promise to Magda to accompany her to the gala, he would have called and cancelled. His gut warned him that she was expecting more than he was prepared to offer.

He gave a brief nod to the blonde in the stunning red silk before turning his attention to the men talking business.

It was supposed to be a charity thing, one that his company was also involved in.

So, it paid for him to show his face. Besides, the hotel was partially owned by his company as well.

But he hated dressing up in these damn monkey suits and talking to strangers.

It helped that some of his friends were present.

What did not help at all was Magda keeping a possessive hand on his arm as if she expected him to bolt.

Which he felt like doing. He also knew she expected him to invite her back to his place, which was not going to happen.

He wanted to be alone. And annoyingly, he could not get his damned assistant out of his mind.

He should not be thinking of her at all.

She was just an employee and one who had been there for a week.

She should not have made such an impression.

But she had. And it was not her extreme efficiency and biting tongue.

The woman had a mouth on her. Jesus! He should not have gone there.

The image of her lips, especially this morning, was wedged deep inside his brain.

Disengaging his arm from Magda and offering a polite excuse, he made his way through the throng of people, some of whom insisted on stopping him to offer conversation. He finally made it to the terrace, where he was alone.

Leaning on the wrought iron rail, he took several deep breaths, appreciating the cold.

A hint of rain and the scent of flowers assailed his nostrils.

He had learned to appreciate the simple things.

Years gone by, he had been in a desperate situation.

Often hungry and homeless. His life had been one of uncertainty and if he had given into it, hopelessness.

But he had been determined to make something of himself.

After enduring abuse from a drunken mother who had taken out her failures on a helpless child, he fought bitterly to get ahead.

Lifting his head, he gazed at the star filled sky and the sliver of moon glinting its pale light everywhere.

The hotel was a magnificent old building that had been around for several hundred years.

It had a delightful mix of the very old and the contemporary.

And was located near the harbor. The scent of the water had him sucking in his breath.

It had been ages since he took his boat out.

When the glass doors were pushed open, he hissed out a breath and turned with the intention of leaving.

"I brought you some scotch. Seems like you needed it." Jackson grinned as he handed his friend the glass.

"I had no idea you were here." Dante had to admit he was grateful it wasn't someone else.

Jackson clinked his own glass against Dante's, brown liquid sloshing just shy of the rim.

"You looked like you were about to jump ship. Figured I'd better throw you a lifeline. I came just when you managed to detangle yourself from the lovely Magda." He strolled over to the rail and looked down. "I hate heights."

"Yet you insist on building your galleries on the uppermost floors," Dante reminded him dryly. His mood had improved drastically.

"For the effect." Jackson turned to eye his friend. "From the little I saw before you made your escape, it seemed to me that you were not having fun."

"What's not to like?" Dante shrugged his shoulder and took a sip of the drink. "People dressed up in their fineries and eating expensive food. I should be in heaven."

His friend grinned at that, accustomed to the man's dry and caustic wit.

"Precisely. Not to mention paying an arm and a leg for the privilege of being part of this whole shebang.

My darling wife had to strong arm me to be in attendance.

I would have preferred to just write a check and be done with it.

The game is on. A beer, some of Jerri's wonderful pot roast and I would have been in seventh heaven. "

"You're such a peasant."

"And happy for it." He took a sip of his own glass of scotch and eyed his friend. "Tell me you don't feel the same."

"Considering that I don't have the privilege of Jerri's pot roast to savor, then I'd say I would halfway agree." He sipped his drink. "I was just here thinking that years ago this was what I would have wished for."

"And now?"

He shrugged.

"It's tiresome. I hate these social gatherings and I'm getting restless." He jerked a head towards the water. "I was also thinking that it's been a while since I took out the boat."

"What's stopping you?"

"Responsibilities." He slid a glance sideways. "I see Jerri also has you wearing a tux."

Jackson grimaced, easing a finger beneath the stiff white shirt.

"That woman can make me walk through fire."

"You're smitten."

A wry smile tugged at the corner of Jackson's mouth.

"Hopelessly." There was no shame in his tone. In fact, it was edged with pride. "She keeps me honest, keeps me on my toes. And if you ask me, you could do with a little fire-walking yourself. You're far too comfortable in your misery, Dante."

Dante grunted, swirling the amber liquor in his glass. The lights from the ballroom flickered behind them, a muffled waltz floating past the glass doors.

"Comfortable, maybe. Miserable, no. I just prefer solitude over small talk and sycophants."

Jackson regarded him quietly for a moment, gaze shrewd.

"That assistant of yours, what's her name? The one you've been scowling about all week. She's got you off balance."

Dante shot him a glare, but Jackson only grinned wider.

"Don't look at me like that. You've barely muttered a word about anyone in years, but I've heard her name twice today. Once from you, once from Magda, who is plotting your demise as we speak."

Dante snorted.

"Magda will survive. She always does."

Jackson leaned in, conspiratorially.

"So, are you going to do something about it? Or just moon about, gazing at the water like a tragic poet?"

The question hung in the air, mingling with the scent of rain and distant brine. Dante let the silence stretch, the memory of his assistant's sharp wit flashing unbidden through his mind. He took a long drink, letting the scotch burn its way down.

Jackson clapped him on the shoulder.

"Come on, man. Let's at least pretend we're enjoying ourselves. For Jerri's sake, if not yours."

Dante hesitated, then nodded. Perhaps the night wasn't completely lost. And maybe, just maybe, he'd let the idea of possibilities linger a little longer.