Silence crackled in the air as we stared at each other, neither one daring to be the first to speak.

Mr. Moreau looked uneasily from Salman to me. “You two know each other?” he asked.

“We’ve met once,” said Salman curtly, his expression inscrutable.

Was he reconsidering the meeting we had planned for later that night? Was he considering how he might use my obvious affection for him to his own advantage?

“What a remarkable coincidence!” said Mr. Moreau, as if he had never heard anything so wonderful.

“You never mentioned that Mr. Renault was your father,” said Salman, looking perturbed. “When you said he had died, I assumed you meant months ago. You must have come straight from the funeral.”

“I didn’t feel like talking about it.” I hugged my arms around my chest, feeling unnerved by the caprice of the world and the cruelty of coincidence. “I wanted to forget my grief for an hour or two.”

“Oh, so you just met,” said Mr. Moreau. We both glared at him as one would at a stranger intruding on a private moment.

Just then, the door opened again, and a third man entered the room. He wore a neatly pressed blue pinstripe suit and his black Oxford shoes seemed to absorb all the light in the room. Despite his amicable-seeming exterior, my sense of being outnumbered increased.

“Ms. Renault, is it?” he asked as he reached for my hand across the table. “Asar Khan, Mr. Abidesi’s business advisor.”

“You can call me Cassie,” I said, grateful that there was a table between us and that he hadn’t tried to give me the kiss greeting popular in France.

“Ms. Renault and Mr. Abidesi were just getting reacquainted,” said Mr. Moreau.

“Oh, do you know each other?” asked Mr. Khan with a complete lack of interest. Opening a moss-green binder, he said, “Let’s get down to it, shall we? Your father owed us a considerable amount of money, and we intend to claim what belongs to us by right.”

Ignoring him, I turned to Salman, who was seated on the other side of Mr. Moreau, looking as though he was having an attack of conscience. “Business-wise, I have to agree,” he said quietly, from behind his hand.

“You agree with Mr. Khan?” I said indignantly.

Salman sank lower into his chair. “This was the arrangement we had agreed upon, yes. Legally, we have the right to take the estate. Your father’s financial malfeasance gives us”—he let out a long sigh—“legal claim over it.”

“We don’t mean to be heartless,” Mr. Khan said, “and no one likes depriving an heir of their whole estate. I imagine that when you got the notice that your father had died, it must have felt like winning the lottery.”

“I admit that wasn’t my first feeling, no,” I replied. I wondered if Mr. Khan had ever felt a human emotion in his life. “And I do consider that an extremely heartless statement you just made.”

“Well, most people of your age would be happy to learn that a loved one had left them a considerable inheritance upon their death. I’m just saying that I can understand your disappointment when you learned that you wouldn’t be getting any of the money that had been promised to you.”

This, coming from one of the men who was taking the money, did not make me feel better.

“And, in situations like this,” he went on, “we can’t allow emotions or relationships to intrude on business. I know it seems mercenary, but our legal obligations as creditors come before whatever relationship you may have had with your father.”

Salman coughed lightly and leaned forward. “What my advisor means to say,” he said, his face flashing embarrassment like a neon sign, “is that the world is run a certain way. And that if we allowed our natural human instinct for compassion and family to trump the cold logic of capitalism, the entire intricate infrastructure of the global economy could come crashing down.”

“The very bedrock of our civilization,” added Mr. Khan.

I gazed coolly and disbelievingly at Salman, wondering if this was the same person with whom I had eaten dinner the night before. He seemed to have been wholly transformed, like the groom in one of those old fairy tales who becomes an ogre at night.

“You really don’t have to worry,” I said, raising my hands in the air. “I’m not about to destroy civilization as we know it.”

“Then you agree to let us have the estate?” asked Salman.

“Not that your agreement makes any difference,” added Khan, unhelpfully. “We will be taking it either way, but it would be good to have your assent—for your own peace of mind, if nothing else.”

Salman glowered at his partner as if wishing that he would stop talking. His gaze then shifted to the table, clearly not wanting to meet my eyes.

I wondered what embarrassed him more: the fact that he was taking away my inheritance, or the fact that we had spent the night before making out. I supposed there was no need to inquire whether our plans were still on for tonight. I would be boarding the next plane back to Phoenix.

“Look, you can have the estate,” I said. “I never really wanted it, anyway. There is one thing my dad left me that I would like to take home, though. Just this one thing.”

“And what thing would that be?” asked Mr. Khan, elegantly curling his arm under his chin.

“My copy of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.”

Salman and Khan exchanged glances from behind Mr. Moreau, who had been watching the proceedings with interest. I could sense weakness in Salman’s face—he might have yielded and given it up, if not for his partner.

“I don’t have any intention of selling it,” I added. “It was my favorite book growing up—that copy specifically.” A sense of desperation crept into my voice as I struggled to explain the importance of the book. “This was the book that made me fall in love with reading and want to become a writer. I doubt I would ever have become a journalist if my mother hadn’t read that book to me night after night. When we finished, I’d ask her to start over from the beginning and read it again.”

Mr. Khan held up a hand to stop me. “We understand that the book has sentimental attachments,” he said with the mechanical air of the Tin Woodman. “If it were just a book from your father’s collection, we would be willing to consider relinquishing it. Unfortunately, the value of that book makes that impossible.”

“I assume Mr. Moreau already informed you of the book’s value?” asked Salman.

“He might have mentioned it,” I said sourly. Neither of them seemed to be getting that I couldn’t have cared less what the book was worth.

“I wish we could come to some sort of agreement,” said Salman slowly, as if reading from a script. “But as one of the most valuable items in your father’s collection, the book will prove instrumental in paying off the numerous debts he owed us. It will be sold at auction, and I expect it to fetch a considerable price.”

“We’ve been waiting years for this moment,” added Mr. Khan with hawk-like savagery, “and now, we intend to collect.”

“Do you even really need the book?” I demanded. I was letting my emotions get the better of me, but I didn’t care. I wanted them to see how important it was to me. “Didn’t he have any number of houses you could sell?”

“At the time of his death, he had exactly one house,” said Mr. Khan. “It may surprise you to learn that the book is worth a fair bit more.”

“I can’t believe you’re taking this from me.” I directed my gaze at Salman, who at least had the decency to look embarrassed by his actions. “Didn’t you ever have a toy or something that you loved more than anything?”

“Look,” said Khan, “I don’t see how continuing to argue the case would be productive for either party. If you really want the book that badly, you’re welcome to buy it back from its rightful owner at full market value. We wouldn’t object to parting with the book for two hundred thousand.”

I glared at the pair of them, having to fight back tears. At this point, Mr. Khan was so far beneath my contempt it was hardly worth even continuing to talk to him. But the worst betrayal had come from Salman; I couldn’t believe he would treat me so callously and insensitively after the kisses we had shared last night.

“You don’t even care about the book,” I said angrily, surprised to find myself crying. “You probably won’t even read it. You’ll sell it the first chance you have because that’s all books are to you—a way of lining your own pockets.”

“I think this conversation has reached its logical end, don’t you?” Mr. Khan said briskly, beginning to rise from the table. “Cassidy, I won’t say it’s been a pleasure.”

I didn’t bother to correct him; I had a feeling he knew my real name and was mispronouncing it out of spite. He offered me his hand again. I glared at him until he withdrew it.

“I understand the loss of your father must have hit you very hard,” he said. “I can only offer my condolences.”

It hadn’t occurred to me that he must think I was still smarting from the ache of my father’s death. In truth, I likely would have been crying just as hard even if he hadn’t died because of what the book meant to me. It was a weird feeling, being more saddened over the loss of a book than I had been over the loss of my father—but I had spent more time with the book and had known it better.

“I do wish you had told me,” said Salman, who had been lingering awkwardly by the door. “I would have taken that into consideration last night.”

And what? I couldn’t help wondering. Would he have tried to steer the conversation toward more somber topics? Thought twice before making out with a grieving woman? But now that he knew, it didn’t seem to have affected his behavior one bit.

When I didn’t respond, he added, “Well, I guess this is goodbye, then.”

An unspoken question lingered in the air between us. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

His shoulders slumped as the implication of the statement registered. It was a little infuriating that he had been holding onto that flicker of hope. We’d both be going home alone tonight, unless he found some other naïve and unsettled woman to seduce.

“Again, I’m really sorry,” he said. He seemed to have sensed that this might be the last chance he would ever have to say what he wanted to say. “I wish things had gone differently between us. But that’s business.”

“You can go now,” I replied.

He followed Mr. Moreau and Mr. Khan out of the office, looking ashamed and apologetic. As they were leaving, I heard Khan lower his voice and speak to Salman.

“If she had wanted to win, she shouldn’t have tried using emotional appeals—or even logical or monetary, frankly. You’re a hard-nosed businessman, but you’re not above a mutually beneficial trade, huh?” he added with a chuckle.

Salman’s uneasy laughter echoed in the hallway as they slipped out the door.

I hovered in the room for a moment, wondering if perhaps I had misunderstood that last remark. Was Khan really suggesting that I could have secured the book in exchange for sex? The inappropriateness of the statement sickened me, as did Salman’s failure to call him out on it. Why were men always humoring their offensive colleagues instead of standing up to them?

But even as my face blushed crimson, I felt a faint ray of hope. Whether or not Khan had intended it, his last comment had shown me a potential way out.