I check the invitation card again.

Dress code: smart casual.

Fucking tech companies, lowering standards for everybody in the industry.

I don’t mind the more relaxed attire, but I liked it better back when going to an industry function at night always meant wearing a tuxedo. It was predictable.

Now I have to read every invitation or risk being the guy who shows up to a black-tie function in a chicken suit.

I put on a clean black button-down shirt and a pair of jeans, then add a tailored blazer on top.

I’m not wearing enough layers to be taking a walk downtown in the middle of winter, but it’s an indoor event so I should be safe, even if I’m still getting used to the weather here.

During the short walk from the entrance of my apartment building to my car, which is parked right by the sidewalk, I notice the heavy clouds hanging low in the gray sky. I don’t think I’ve seen the sun come out for a whole day the entire time I’ve been here.

As soon as I get inside the car and start the ignition, I turn on the heater and the GPS. Holding the invitation card in my hand, I enter the address into the GPS. I hate having to rely on this thing to get around.

At least I don’t have to deal with my father here, or the rest of the family. I haven’t even told them where I am. I smile to myself and inhale the sweet, cool scent of freedom.

Luckily, James came through for me with the money transfer on the same day I signed away my claim over Foster Hotels. Along with the money I’ve saved over the years from not taking the private jet and forgoing other little luxuries, I’m in a pretty good place, financially.

I’m not proud of this, but — wait, what the hell, I am proud of this. I pulled a big one over on my father for the first time in my life and I’m fucking proud of it. That’s a real fucking achievement.

That’s also why I haven’t told anyone where I am. He’s probably still seething.

My father thinks he’s the smart guy who controls every single thing and has a plan for every single scenario that can go wrong. It turns out I have learned a thing or two from him because the trick that I pulled was taken straight out of his book.

My father’s lawyer may have prepared all documents the way he ordered, but that guy also outsourced a lot of his work. And one of his underlings happened to be a college buddy of mine. So, along with James, whom I also met in college, we put in one little, barely noticeable clause that allowed me a little freedom in withdrawing company money.

Luckily, as thorough as he is with my reports, my father doesn’t pay as much attention to the work of his trusted advisors. Why would he? They’re not inexperienced kids like I am.

Maybe it’s bad to steal money from your parent, but who cares? It’s my money, too. Do I feel bad about it? I fucking don’t. I built Foster Hotels with my own blood, sweat, and tears.

My father may have provided the initial funding, but he’s now left with more money than he invested originally. Everything considered, he still won the overall battle. But I bet he’s huffing and puffing over my latest act of “betrayal against the family,” as the man himself would put it.

I’d been complacent. I depended on my father for far too long. I used to think striking out on my own would be too hard, but I see now that it’s way riskier to put my trust in someone like him.

I’m still putting my feelers out, trying to get to know this new city before I do anything. But I fully intend on building another hotel brand from the ground up here. One thing I’m sure of, there won’t be any trace of the Foster family name in my new venture.

The work I put into Foster Hotels didn’t go to waste either. I’ve made a name for myself as a smart, capable hotelier who can build a strong brand in a short time.

Just based on that alone, I’ve had many job offers, some of them from really big brands that are doing some really exciting stuff.

It would be a great experience to work in a big corporation with hundreds and thousands of properties all over the world. I’d be paid more money than I’d know what to do with — the headhunters have shown me some really tantalizing figures.

And I’d be able to oversee multi-billion-dollar projects, like exclusive resorts on private islands meant for high-value, jet-setting guests like CEOs of multi-national corporations and movie stars.

We’re talking marinas full of the most extravagant yachts, staffers who address every single guest by name, chefs who have earned countless Michelin stars, and it goes without saying that all these properties are located in breathtaking settings.

But as much as I want to trade this gloomy city for a tropical paradise, I can’t bring myself to accept any of those offers.

If there’s a lesson I take away from my first business, it’s that I need to build something from the ground up myself and proudly call it my own. That way nobody can ever take it away from me. Who knows, maybe I’ll attract the A-listers to my own brand in a few years.

I may not have as much money as I did when I started working on Foster Hotels, but I’m smarter now. I’m patient and hardworking. I can make it happen. Even if I reject their job offers, lots of important people in the industry are eager to work with me.

That’s one of the things I realized during the conference here. I made some powerful contacts in those three days, which made me believe that this is the right city for me to start from the beginning. And that was despite me spending much of my time there on Emily instead of on work.

Fuck. Emily. Can’t I go one day without thinking about her?

“You are at your destination,” a robotic voice declares through the GPS speaker.

“Shut up,” I say to no one in particular.

I round the corner and drive into the parking lot. Even after moving to a whole different city, my mind just won’t let go of Emily.

I keep seeing her everywhere — she’s walking down the streets, sitting at the dining tables of my favorite take-out restaurants, wandering the hallways of my own apartment building, working at the head offices of the big hotels where I hold meetings with the bigwigs. Of course it’s never really her; just random women with long blonde hair.

I miss her. I fucking miss her.

I probably won’t ever see her again. Even if I visit San Francisco someday, I can’t justify myself ever reaching out to her.

My brain has made its peace with that; she’s better off without me anyway. I’ve done nothing but wreak havoc on her life from the very first night that I saw her. Not only did I kill her boyfriend, but I also deceived her.

After a lot of thinking, I see now that what I did to her was unforgivable. I was stupid to even consider that she’d forgive me and even run away with me. Her whole life is there. It makes no fucking sense whatsoever that she’d leave everything and choose me, knowing that I’m responsible for ruining her life.

Yes, there’s definitely no doubt in my mind that Emily is better off without me.

Convincing my heart to forget her is a completely different matter, though. Every time she crosses my mind, it feels like there’s a boa constrictor wrapped around my chest, squeezing out all the air in my lungs to slowly kill me. I’m worried it’ll soon fool my mind into abandoning my resolve to forget about her.

That doesn’t sound too far-fetched, considering it’s already fooling my mind into seeing Emily everywhere. I even see another Emily while circling the parking area looking for an empty spot, but it must be just another girl who happens to be wearing a red dress and has her long blonde hair curled.

For the sake of my own mental health, I have to fucking get a grip on reality.

After parking the car, I pull the invitation card out of my jacket pocket and check the details again as I reach the rows of elevator doors.

I find the place easily enough. As soon as I step out of the elevator I can hear the din of conversations and the clinking of dinnerware, so I just follow the noise.

The event is held in their new office space, which is a little too hipster for my taste, but I guess it works for a tech company. Their client base is probably a bunch of hipsters anyway. Who else would think it’s a good idea to stay the night in a stranger’s house?

“Sir?” A smiling man in a white shirt and a bow tie offers me a tray of champagne glasses. I take one, thank him, and continue looking around. I was hoping to get some inspiration for my new brand, but it soon becomes clear that I’ll be going for something completely different with my new hotel.  

The whole place looks like they hired a hipster interior designer straight out of college and told him to go crazy. It’s all just one big open space, with gray polished concrete flooring and gallery-white walls covered with framed pictures of their best properties and graffiti — which they’d no doubt call murals instead.

There are clusters of seating areas scattered all over, some of them with coffee tables and mismatched sofas, and others with huge desks made of distressed wood. Of course they also have bean bags and standing desks. Why wouldn’t they?

“Hi, Cole,” says a man with dark olive skin and rows of blindingly white teeth.

“Hi. Great party, huh? Good turnout.” I smile back and wonder where I’ve seen him before. He definitely looks familiar. I’ve met so many new people since moving to Seattle that I’m losing track.

“Yeah. We worked really hard on the new interface and I think we deserve a little celebration.”

“Congratulations on the successful launch.” I raise my glass and take a sip of champagne when I realize he must work for InstaLux.

He studies my face and smiles. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

“Sorry.” I smile politely and shake my head. There’s no point in pretending now that he’s caught me.

“Marco.” He points at his own chest with his thumb. “The conference two months ago? The swimming pool at Trident Hotel? Emily’s childhood friend?”

My heart skips a beat when he mentions Emily’s name. I haven’t heard her name said out loud other than in the darkness of my own bedroom when I wake up in cold sweat from another nightmare. I quickly regain my composure. “Right. Marco. Sorry I didn’t recognize you. I’ve met too many new people since I moved here.”

“I thought that might be the case,” he says. “It seems all of San Francisco is moving here, huh? First you, and now Emily.”

“Emily’s here?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

“She hasn’t told you? We hired her and she just flew in last week.” Marco grins and says, “Wait here. I’ll get her. She’ll flip out when she sees you here.”

Before I can say anything in reply, Marco disappears into the crowd. Damn. That guy is fast.

My heart is hammering in my chest. Suddenly the whole place seems quiet. The loud chatter of the party-goers fades away until all I can hear is my own loud, erratic heartbeats. I spin around and scan the room, trying to find Emily — the real one, this time.

Is she really here? Or was that whole conversation also just a figment of my imagination? The last time I spoke with her, she seemed to hate me.

She probably will flip out when she sees me, but I suspect it won’t be the good kind of flipping out.