Page 111 of Sigma

Corinna,

Your friends Duke and Puck were right, it seems. I will never feel ready. I will never feel like I am…the man I saw in your eyes when you looked at me. But, if anyone could do more than I have over the past two years to grow into a man who could deserve you, I would like to meet him.

I miss you.

I have replayed the time we spent together in my mind a million times. Not just the moments in my bed (or closet). But the meals. The conversations. It seems impossible, but the time we shared was a matter of hours.

Those few hours with you altered the fabric of my very soul.

Hours, at most, and I am changed by you.

I have left behind all that is Karahalios. The businesses, the enterprises, the men, the money. Even the name, as you suggested. I did some further genealogical detective work and have determined the identity of my father. His name was Dimitri. Therefore, in accordance with Greek custom, I have changed my surname to Dimitriou.

So.

Did you mean it?

If you did, meet me at the address below, tonight, at 6pm.

Yours,

Apollo

A business cardis paper clipped to the note—a restaurant here in Houston; since the majority of the work on Valkyrie as we near the first launch has been here, I keep a small condo here, near the offices, and a short flight to the South Texas launch site. Dad only flies in from the Caribbean when his presence is necessary, which means I live here alone, and do the bulk of my work as the CEO of Valkyrie Extraglobal Solutions without direct oversight from him. Not quite twenty-three, and I’m the CEO of a multi-billion-dollar spaceflight and construction start-up. It’s the direct result of blatant nepotism, sure, but the board of directors of Valkyrie still unanimously voted for me, and yes, there was competition from more traditional sixty-year-old suit-and-tie business types, qualified men all. Yet, here I am.

I read the note again, and then check the time: 4:54. I don’t have much time.

I collect my paperwork into folders and lock it all in my desk, collect my purse, stick my feet in my shoes—I always kick them off once I get to my office—and head out the door.

I pause at my secretary’s desk. “James, would you clear the rest of my schedule for today, please?”

James glances at me. “Yes, Miss Roth.” He looks at his screen. “You have a meeting with Michael at five thirty, should I reschedule?”

I consider. “Just tell Michael to put the important information in an email, and that I’ll get back with him.” I can’t help feeling a little giddy. “Something’s come up.”

James frowns. Nothing ever comes up—I’m married to the work. “Yes, Miss Roth.”

I drove here, but in the interest of time, I decide to indulge a little. “Can you call up and have Alexander get ready to fly me home? And then have someone shuttle my car home for me. Thank you.”

He doesn’t answer, he’s already on the phone relaying my instructions.

I head up to the rooftop flight deck—RTI, reacquired shortly after we all returned from Spain two years ago, has developed a prototype personal aircraft using VTOL and sound dampening technology. The result is a four-to-six person aircraft that operates in four planes of movement as easily as a helicopter and flies as fast a jet—subsonic, although it’s capable of supersonic flight—but without the destructive decibel levels of an average jet engine or helicopter. It gets me across town to my condo in a matter of minutes, a drive that normally takes me nearly half an hour.

Shower, hair and makeup.

I’m still in a bathrobe doing my hair and makeup when my door buzzes. I answer it in person, and find a young courier carrying a garment bag and a digital clipboard.

“Corinna Roth?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Sign here, please.” I scrawl, and he hands me the bag. “A gift from…” he consults his clipboard. “Apollo Dim…Dimit…” a frown. “Dim-it-TRY-yoo?” He butchers the last name.

“Dim-EE-tree-yo,” I correct. “Thank you.”

“There’s a note here I’m supposed to read.” He clears his throat, peers at the clipboard. “‘Corinna, I’ve had this made for you. See you soon.’”

“Got it, thanks.” I pause, garment bag in hand. “Do I tip you?”