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Six months ago, someone stood in this exact spot—on the twenty-fifth floor of the high-rise building that houses Coble we haven’t even had an engagement dinner . She deserves much better than this.

“No takeout tonight,” I say. “I’m leaving early.”

“Really?”

The fact that she seems so astonished tugs at me. “Yes, and I’m taking you out to dinner.”

“Blake,” she says softly. “You don’t have to do this. If you need to work, I understand…”

“You’re more important.” My voice is firm—it’s the voice people don’t say no to. “We are going out to dinner, and it’s going to be someplace really nice, so save your appetite. I’ll be home by seven-thirty.”

She sounds so happy. And all this work will be here tomorrow. Also, I’ve got a laptop I can crack open after she’s gone to sleep.

I’m loving domestic life with Krista. When I was twenty-five, the idea of living with a woman would have been unthinkable, but it’s been great. It’s been going so well we even decided to get ourselves a pet, which we tacitly agreed was a practice run for when we have a child together. We thought about getting a cat or dog, but we couldn’t handle that much responsibility, so we ended up with a goldfish. Her name is Goldy. Granted, I know goldfish aren’t particularly cuddly, but I’m already attached.

But I need to learn to balance my work and home life. I needed this promotion to give Krista and me the life we want—the life she deserves , which will hopefully be better than what my mom had. I needed it to pay for the brownstone, because the mortgage was eating up my whole paycheck.

I came from nothing and hated it. My dad owned a small hardware store and was always struggling to keep it afloat, so I’ve taken steps to ensure that my life is going to be different. I never want to have to worry about the lights being shut off.

I shove my phone into the pocket of my crisply tailored pants. I’ll tie up a few loose ends here, and then I’ll take off. But before I turn back to my desk, I take one last look out the picture window. I can vaguely see my own reflection in the glass—I’m on the taller side, close to six feet, with brown hair that I always keep clipped very short because it has an annoying tendency to curl, the hint of a cleft in my chin, and dark brown eyes that are a little too close together but have been called “intense,” which I take as a compliment.

“Blake?”

I tear my eyes away from the window. My boss’s secretary, Stacie, is standing at the open door to my office, her fist poised to rap on the doorframe to get my attention. And she’s got my attention. In that skirt—yes, holy crap, she has my attention.

“Hey,” I say. “What’s up, Stacie?”

“Wayne wants to talk to you.”

I glance back at my watch again. It’s late in the day for a meeting. “Now?”

“Right now, he said.”

She’s not meeting my eyes like she usually does. She’s looking down at the oriental rug on the floor, like it’s the most interesting thing she’s ever seen. And I think to myself, That’s strange .

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll be right there.”

As I turn away from the window and follow Stacie out of the office, it doesn’t even occur to me that in the next five minutes, my whole life will come crashing down.