Paul’s chauffeur, a man named Jose from Mexico, drove too quickly through the streets of Brooklyn, bolting toward Manhattan. The radio sputtered with ‘80s tunes, and he turned his shoulders with the chaos of the music, swirling his head right and left to hunt for pedestrians, potentially crossing.

Lost in thought, Paul sipped his latte, scolding himself for having any adoration for that gorgeous barista at Blue Line. She was surely one of the countless, young-20-something hipsters of Brooklyn: that short, blonde bob, those wide-set brown eyes, those trendy clothes. But something about her—had it been the easy banter between them?—had cast her as different than the rest, in his eyes.

Flashing his eyes, he tried to recall the gorgeous woman who’d scrambled out of bed with him that morning. Breasts? Eyes? Cinched waist? He could hardly remember. She’d been merely an apparition, an amalgamation of all the other women he’d slept with since the divorce had gone through with Elena.

“You have a meeting with your father today, sir?” Jose asked him, his dark eyes entering the rearview mirror and looking back.

“Not quite sure,” Paul said. “Don’t think Dad’s in town right now. My secretary just said the board wants to see me. But I haven’t a clue why. Haven’t met with the board in months.”

Paul hadn’t thought the software company, of which his father was CEO, had much use for him these days. Namely, one of the members of the board was Jack Pritchard, the very man who’d apparently cozied up to his ex-wife in the previous months—and who was, assuredly, spending far more time with his daughter than he was. This made his blood boil.

“I hear on my last drive that your father is thinking of retiring?” Jose called back.

“Sure. He’s been talking about that for years. But I don’t think I’ll be the one up for the gig. Do you, Jose?” Paul laughed, knowing that Jose understood the ins and outs of Paul’s life. He’d driven one too many women back from his penthouse not to notice a pattern.

“Oh, Paul, you’re too hard on yourself,” Jose said, easing the black car through the sunny streets. Out the front window, Paul caught sight of the massive building in the Financial District: where the offices of the software company had stretched a series of offices, on the 55th floor.

Tossing a 50 back to Jose, for his trouble, Paul lurched into the sunlight, grabbed his briefcase, and then entered the glass doors on the ground floor. Making a beeline toward the elevator, he pressed the circular button, rolling his eyes as a gorgeous, bright-eyed woman stepped in just before the door closed. She assessed him, drawing her eyes from his shoes to his shoulders, then said:

“Hello there, Paul. Don’t think I’ve seen you in the office in a while. Maybe a year?”

“Samantha,” Paul boomed.

“Your father and mother are in town, I heard?”

Paul shifted uncomfortably. He hadn’t heard from them in weeks and had ben under the impression that they were still at their French chateau, south of Montpellier, on the sea. “Good weather for it,” had been his mother’s last text message. At which time, he’d allowed himself the luxury of not speaking to them for a while and diving headlong into his selfish, luxurious life.

“Suppose so,” Paul returned.

“Big meeting ahead. You nervous?” she asked.

“Suppose not,” Paul said, not giving her an inch.

Samantha was in cahoots with Jack Pritchard, and thus didn’t care for Paul very much. They were both on the board for the software company, leading Paul to believe that he’d never be CEO, once his father stepped down. It didn’t seem logical, with so much working against him.

Did he even want the gig, anyway?

The elevator doors parted, leaving Paul to follow Samantha’s clattering heels toward the conference room. Through the doors, Paul was shocked to find several of the higher-ups—his father’s friends and confidants at the company, Jack Pritchard, and his father and mother, all stationed at chairs that shifted left and right with their weight. Paul lifted a hand in hello and then swept forward, giving his mother a kiss on the cheek and shaking his father’s hand.

“Please, Paul. Sit down,” his father, Max Le Montagne, said, gesturing.

Paul did as he was told, sitting at the far side of the table and giving an ominous, dark expression to Jack, whose face seemed scrunched in, tight.

Otto, Max’s long-time friend and business associate, who often ran these sorts of meetings, began to speak. His wrinkles lined his cheeks and chin, making it appear as though someone had yanked his skin downward every day for the past 50 years.

“Paul, we have some rather unfortunate information for you here today,” he began.

Paul kept his cool, drawing his arms across his chest. “Please, proceed.” Perhaps they were telling him that his inheritance was reduced? That he needed to begin working at the company again?

“Your father, as you know, has had some health complications over the years. But unfortunately, the recent diagnosis isn’t one he can come out of. I’m sure he’ll tell you more of the details regarding this at a later time,” Otto continued.

Paul swept his hands to the tabletop, his eyes directing toward his father. “Dad?” he began. “What—“

Max lifted his finger to his nose, tapping it once. “Still have years to live, Paul,” he said. “Let’s get back to the meeting, shall we?”

With Paul’s heart still hammering in his chest, he focused on Otto. “All right. Apologies for my outburst.”

“Absolutely understandable,” Otto continued. “Now. In the wake of this news, the board has met and made a decision. You, Paul Le Montagne, will take over as CEO of Le Montagne Software, giving your father adequate time to rest and enjoy his life.”

Paul looked aghast. Jack shifted in his seat, matching Paul’s expression. It was clear that he’d assumed, with his rank on the board, that he’d be considered for the position of CEO—rather than Paul. Paul had assumed this, as well, and had already considered the prospect of working with the man who was sleeping with his ex-wife: how to handle him, how to ruin him, how to translate just what he thought of him, without breaking the law.

“But there’s a catch,” Otto continued.

“Suppose there always is,” Paul boomed.

“As far as your lifestyle goes, Paul, your father could be a great deal happier. We’d like you to take some responsibility for your life. We’d like you to move past your bachelor ways and eventually marry once more.”

Paul felt himself scoff. “So you want me to just head out on Broadway Avenue and fall in love with the first girl I see?” he asked, glancing at his father. His outburst had clearly upset his mother, who held her cheeks in her hands. Her bright pink lipstick left marks on her fingers.

“Of course not,” Otto continued, clearly the voice of reason. His words were calculated, slow. He lifted a small box from his breast pocket, placed it on the table, and then shoved it toward Paul.

Paul lifted the box, curiosity taking the place of any anger or fear for his father. Opening it, he saw a ring glinting back at him: an old family heirloom he recognized, that had been owned and worn by his great-great-grandmother—a rich Frenchwoman who’d married a Duke from England.

“You are to give this ring to the woman you choose to marry,” Otto continued. “And if you do not succeed in finding a woman, you will not only lose your position as CEO, but you will not receive your inheritance. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” Paul said, his nostrils flaring.

It was not unlike the board to do extreme things like this. His father was dramatic, European by all counts, and considered his life as a movie—one that involved toying with as many characters as he could.

“Above all, Paul,” his father began, his voice weaker than Paul remembered. “You need to create a stable environment for your daughter. So you can get her back. Family is the most important thing. And it seems you’ve forgotten that.”

Turning his eyes toward Jack, Paul glared at him—sensing that Jack had delivered information regarding his daughter’s life to the members of the board, making it seem as though Paul wasn’t demanding, nearly every single day, that his daughter come live with him.

If Elena would allow it, he would stop dating in a second.

Ripping up from his seat, Paul clipped the ring box closed, turning toward the door. “All right,” he said, his words snarky. “I’m off to find my own Cinderella. Because true love happens just like that. Right, Jack?”

Jack didn’t respond. Blood left both his parents’ faces, making them look ghoulish. Without another word, Paul turned from the boardroom, hopped into the elevator, and made up his mind, then and there, to get drunk.