In general, I’d say things work out pretty fucking great for me.

I mean, I’m not immune to the occasional random gut-punch, courtesy of the universe’s tendency to dole out punches to the fucking gut every once in a while. But in general? Yeah, life is pretty fucking great.

Most people who have lives like mine are under the impression that their shit doesn’t stink. Most people who live on the 52^nd floor of the Barclay Tower, or who enjoy a high-powered career in the merciless world of NYC finance, think of themselves as brilliant and unique―as if they see the world differently than all those dim, unenlightened proles who eke out a living waiting tables, driving Ubers, walking dogs or working cash registers.

I’m under no such delusion.

True, my achievements in hedge fund management have won me minor industry fame and an astronomical net worth. But that’s not because I’m some sort of exceptionally rare super-genius—it’s because I work really fucking hard.

I also don’t believe that the best fortification for a day’s work are the wheatgrass smoothies and flax breakfasts that many of my colleagues swear by. I call bullshit on that.

No, most days, during my five-minute walk to work, I stop at a deli in the Woolworth Building for a simple coffee and an egg sandwich.

My office is in the building as well, but the deli has its own separate, unpretentious entrance. There, I have to flavor the coffee all by my fucking self, emptying turbinado sugar packets into the cup and pouring skim milk from an open carton they keep in a small fridge. It’s one of my favorite daily activities, primarily for the thirty seconds of Zen nothingness it provides.

Despite being detached from the building’s palatial, marble furnished lobby, the deli is usually the most relaxing part of my commute—if not my entire day.

Today, stirring the swirls of milk into the formerly pitch-black coffee depths, I’m feeling at peace, and I fucking revel in it.

This space at Broadway street level must cost tens of thousands a month. The awkward layout doesn’t really reflect that, with tables half-heartedly set up along the under-lit back wall leading to the restrooms.

But it works for me. If I drank my coffee in the office, or even at the nearby Starbucks, there’s no guarantee that everyone would leave me the fuck alone.

In this part of town, a few blocks from Wall Street, someone with developed instincts for investment, reward, and minimizing risks is unlikely to be left the fuck alone very often.

I’m lucky to have found a spot in my office building where no one thinks to look. I’ve come to regard it as a necessity—these quiet moments before the chaos of my day begins—right up there next to a good fuck on the scale of things that make life beautiful.

I get childlike satisfaction from getting the stupid plastic lid securely fastened to the top of my 20-ounce cup. I also enjoy the tactile warmth of the coffee as I carry it to the register and greet Rodrigo.

Rodrigo runs this business, I’m pretty sure. I’ve never exactly asked him about it, because business of any kind is the last thing I want to talk about this early.

I do know that he moved here from Cuba almost sixty years ago; he’s a New Yorker in the hard-earned sense that most of the spoiled transplants who live and work around here could never understand.

Rodrigo’s smiling as I approach him with the coffee.

“No sandwich today, Mr. B?”

“Some days I don’t need it or want it.”

Rodrigo just smiles and nods. He knows he’ll get plenty of my money in the future. He deserves it, too. Rodrigo is one person who I’m sure has never judged me.

Maybe that’s part of the reason this strange little deli that overcharges tourists is like a fucking spa or something for me. I would never even bring anyone else here; it’s like my own little secret retreat. Rodrigo may be the only person who knows me―

The bell on the door jars me from my thoughts just as Rodrigo rings me up. I turn to look…and my whole fucking world screeches to a halt.

Remember that gut-punch I mentioned? Yeah. I’m most definitely not fucking immune.

What.

The.

Fuck.

This place is supposed to be mine, like a spa or some sort of fucking monastic retreat. And it was, up until a second ago, when it instead became one of the most stressful and confusing places on the entire fucking Earth.

All I can do is stand and stare.

She’s over by the entrance—not close to me, thank fuck. She just walked in, and it looks like she still hasn’t figured out exactly why she’s here. She doesn’t even notice me—again, thank fuck.

But what the fuck is she doing here?

In New York?

Downtown?

Before eight in the morning when I just happen to be getting coffee?

Right outside my fucking office?

She still doesn’t see me. She’s too busy looking at all the prepackaged salads on display by the entrance. She leaves after looking at a couple of the prices.

It’s not actually her. There’s no way. It can’t be. And it doesn’t matter now because whoever she is, she’s walked out the door now anyway.

Out of sight, out of mind, time to go to fucking work.

I keep forgetting that I’m holding the coffee cup as I drop money on the counter and leave, nod to the security guy, navigate the hordes of office drones, and stand in the usual unhappy elevator crowd.

I don’t even notice the stupid, full cup still in my grasp as I’m wandering down the final corridor to my office at the corner, nodding automatically at several of the people I pass.

Finally, it’s the view of City Hall Park, the two bridges, Brooklyn, that all somehow remind me that I’ve been clutching a completely full paper cup for the past twenty minutes.

I lay my coffee to rest on my oversized desk and look at my personal phone for a second.

My phone’s silent as usual, but I did miss a call from Laura and a couple texts from Sansa. I realized I haven’t really looked at the damn thing since yesterday.

Whatever. That wasn’t her anyway, right?

And if it wasn’t, am I seriously getting to the point where if I’m not thinking about her constantly, I’m actually fucking seeing her in different places?

Seeing her—or just thinking that I saw her—I don’t know which one is fucking worse.

I look at the paper cup sitting on my massive oak desk. It doesn’t belong there, but it seems like a lot of things aren’t where they belong today.

Goddammit, Ethan. Fucking stop it.

I’m giving it too much power. I need to stop giving it mental real estate now.

Lucky me, the desk phone chooses that exact moment to ring. Fucking finally, I can get to work already.

It’s the intra-office ring, almost certainly from someone who should be bringing themselves to talk to me in person.

I take my sweet time to drift around the desk and settle in my chair before picking up the receiver.

“What is it, Greg?” I let out with an underlying sigh.

“How did you know it was me?”

The voice on the other end sounds genuinely surprised. Is this really the first time we’ve been through this?

“Everyone else knows they can just walk through my door. I think you know that, too.”

I can almost feel the apologetic lament coming through the line.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Greg expresses gravely, “I just never like bothering you.”

I give myself a moment to cool down and remind myself not everyone has the confidence I do, and Greg is still new enough to worry about his job.

“What’s up, Greg?”

“Nothing big, just some updates with investor cultivation. There are some real big names we’re hearing about, big money.”

Fuck. That’s nothing, so I immediately know it’s just the warm-up, the lead-in to something else. Something I don’t want to hear, most likely.

“Yeah, and what else?”

“That was it…oh, and there’s somebody, uh, around. Hanging out.”

“What? Hanging out? What the fuck are you talking about? Please be more specific.”

Greg’s anxious swallow is audible.

“It’s someone—not big production or anything—I mean, it’s probably nothing. But she says she’s from the SEC...”

Okay, that’s my fucking cue to hang up and go into crisis mode. Those are initials you don’t want to hear as a hedge fund manager, at least in his context—even when you’re doing the smart and moral thing of being squeaky fucking clean.

Think for a second about what you’d do if you received a notice of an IRS audit, with a claim they found proof of fraud over multiple years. Whether there’s some truth to it or not, it’s still scary as shit.

When I swing open my office door, I see what I expect: interns, administrative assistants, Greg, all milling nervously around the Gothic corridor with no fucking clue how to proceed.

I’m the only higher-up outside an office door right now, since the others have no desire for SEC face-time at the moment.

Whoever it is must be out in the hall.

And fuuuck…she sure as hell is. For the second time in under an hour, my world came to a halt, my ears ringing as everything but her fades into the muted background.

No hallucinations this time, no mistaken identity. There’s no way in hell I’m imagining this now.

It’s her alright.

How did I not notice she was wearing such a sharply flattering Ann Taylor business suit in the deli?

She’s wearing a lanyard, as well.

God, she looks good. So fucking good. Even better than my memories of her.

Hearing the fabled initials of the Securities Exchange Commission inspired a little burst of adrenaline, but seeing Madeline in the flesh, at my place of work, where I spend so many goddamn hours each week…

Cinematically, everyone seems to clear the hall at once, leaving me facing my…fear? Who the fuck knows?

Well, either way, it feels like one because my stomach’s dropping dozens of floors, straight down to the sidewalk. No, to the fucking subway. It feels like more than that, too. And holy hell, she really does look good.

“Ethan,” she projects easily down the corridor. She’s not surprised to see me. Her gorgeous face is carefully schooled into a detached expression. I have no clue what might be going through her head.

“Or Mr. Barrett, I should say. I’m here to inform you that that your firm is under active investigation for selling and buying securities with knowledge of substantial nonpublic information.”

Damn, she looks good. It’s the only thing my brain seems capable of processing. I should be flabbergasted, annoyed, unsure.

The words coming out of her gorgeous mouth should have me feeling a million things besides what I’m feeling right now.

Because all I’m feeling is excitement.

Anticipation.

Lust.

It’s the same mix of emotions Madeline’s always evoked.

I shouldn’t be surprised, not really. Five years may have passed since I last saw her, but I’ve relived those days in my head every fucking day since.

And now here we are.