Sunday evening arrived with the hush of a held breath.
Alexander had spent the day in a state of controlled panic. He canceled a breakfast with the CFO. Ignored three calls from Tokyo. Sent Priya a single text: Clear my calendar after 6. No exceptions. She replied with a thumbs-up emoji and, suspiciously, a string of heart-eyes. He pretended not to notice.
At 5:47 p.m., he stood in front of his closet in nothing but boxer briefs and indecision. The navy suit felt too formal. The charcoal one screamed boardroom. He finally settled on dark jeans, a white button-down rolled to the elbows, and the least ostentatious watch he owned—a vintage Patek Philippe his father had given him the day he made his first million. It felt like armor and apology at once.
Maria, the nanny, had taken Liam to a friend's birthday party (laser tag, followed by a sleepover). The penthouse was unnaturally quiet. Alexander wandered the halls like a ghost, straightening a throw pillow that didn't need straightening, checking the fridge twice to confirm the dinosaur nuggets were still there.
At 6:15, the intercom buzzed.
"Ms. Reyes is here, sir." The doorman's voice held a note of amusement.
Alexander took the elevator down himself. When the doors opened in the lobby, Elena was leaning against the marble counter, chatting with the concierge about the best dumpling spot in Flushing. She wore a sleeveless black dress that skimmed her knees, hair twisted up with what looked like a paintbrush, and the same scuffed boots from her interview. A denim jacket was slung over one arm.
She turned when she saw him, and the lobby lights caught the gold flecks in her green eyes. "You clean up nice, Voss."
"You're early."
"Fashionably. There's a difference." She pushed off the counter. "Ready?"
He wasn't. But he nodded.
They walked.
Not to a chauffeured car. Not to a rooftop with a sommelier and a view. Just walked, west toward the Hudson, the city softening into twilight. Elena led them to a tiny Peruvian place tucked beneath the High Line—string lights, mismatched chairs, a chalkboard menu that changed daily. The hostess greeted her by name and led them to a corner table by the window.
Alexander raised an eyebrow. "You come here often?"
"Every time I need to remember why I do this job." She slid into her seat. "The ceviche is life-changing. Also, they don't care if you draw on the tablecloths."
The waiter—a kid with a sleeve of tattoos and a grin—dropped off two Pisco sours and a basket of plantain chips. Elena immediately flipped the paper tablecloth and started sketching the view outside: the High Line's wildflowers glowing under streetlights, a couple arguing over a map, a dog wearing sunglasses.
Alexander watched her hands move—quick, sure, alive. "You always do that?"
"Draw when I'm nervous? Yeah." She didn't look up. "Occupational hazard."
"You're nervous?"
She met his eyes. "Terrified."
The honesty hit him like a wave. He reached for his drink to buy time. "You hide it well."
"Years of practice." She set down her pencil. "Your turn. Truth for truth. Why'd you really move the shareholder meeting?"
He exhaled. "Because Liam asked me to. And because…" He hesitated. "Because I wanted to see if I still could."
"Could what?"
"Choose something else."
The waiter returned with ceviche—snapper so fresh it tasted like the ocean—and causa, layered potatoes bright with aji amarillo. They ate in companionable silence at first, the kind that didn't need filling. Then Elena asked about Liam's mom. Not prying. Just curious.
Alexander told her the short version: Harvard Business School sweethearts. Marriage at 27. Liam at 30. Claire's restlessness by 32. The note on the kitchen counter. The divorce papers signed in a lawyer's office while Liam napped in a stroller.
"I don't blame her," he said. "I was… absent. Even when I was there."
Elena listened without judgment. Then: "Liam doesn't seem to agree. He talks about you like you hung the moon."
"He's eight. His standards are low."
She kicked him lightly under the table. "Don't do that. Don't diminish it. He loves you. That's not nothing."
The conversation drifted—safer waters. Her childhood in Queens, her mom's bodega, the scholarship to RISD she almost turned down because she was afraid to leave home. The first campaign she ever sold, at 22, for a nonprofit that built playgrounds in refugee camps. How she still kept the thank-you letter from a little girl in Jordan framed above her desk.
Alexander found himself laughing—really laughing—at her story about accidentally dyeing an entire office park's fountain neon pink during a guerrilla marketing stunt. When the check came, he reached for it automatically. Elena snatched it first.
"My turn to pay," she said. "You bought the empanadas."
They stepped outside into full night. The High Line was quieter now, just a few runners and couples strolling. Elena slipped her jacket on. Their shoulders brushed as they walked.
At the stairs leading down to the street, she stopped. "I should head home. Early call tomorrow—your encryption campaign needs a tagline that doesn't sound like a Bond villain."
Alexander's pulse thudded. "I'll walk you."
"It's three blocks."
"I insist."
They walked in silence, the city's heartbeat syncing with theirs. At her building—a pre-war walk-up with a busted buzzer—she turned to him.
"This was…" She searched for the word. "Unexpected."
"In a good way?"
"In the best way."
He wanted to kiss her. God, he wanted to. But Liam's voice echoed in his head—Is Elena my new mom?—and the weight of it rooted him in place.
Elena seemed to sense it. She reached up, brushed an imaginary speck from his shoulder. "Slow," she said. "We're good at slow."
He nodded. "Text me when you're inside."
She saluted with two fingers and disappeared through the door.
Back at the penthouse, Alexander poured another scotch and stood at the window. His phone buzzed—a photo from Elena. Her tablecloth sketch, now complete: the High Line scene, but in the foreground, a tiny figure in a suit holding a Pisco sour, staring up at the stars like he'd never seen them before. Beneath it, in her handwriting:
Some doors open when you stop trying to lock them. —E
He saved it as his new lock screen.
Monday morning, the office buzzed with a different energy.
Elena's team had mocked up three taglines overnight. Alexander walked into the creative floor unannounced and found her asleep at her desk, cheek on a tablet, surrounded by coffee cups and crumpled Post-its. One read: TRUST IS THE NEW BLACK.
He draped his jacket over her shoulders and left a note: Meeting moved to 10. Sleep. —A
At 10:05, she burst into the boardroom, hair in a frantic knot, clutching a stack of printouts. The executives looked up, startled. Alexander just smiled.
"Sorry I'm late," she said, breathless. "Traffic was—well, actually, I overslept. But I brought prototypes."
She slapped a tablet on the table and activated the hologram. This time, it wasn't a garden. It was a child's bedroom at night—stars on the ceiling, a nightlight shaped like Saturn. A phone on the bedside table pinged with a VossTech notification. The screen bloomed into a shield of light that wrapped around the bed, gentle but impenetrable. The tagline floated in the air:
We protect what matters. So you can dream.
The room went silent. Then the CFO—a man who'd once called Elena's garden "hippie nonsense"—started clapping. Slowly. Then faster. The rest followed.
Alexander didn't clap. He couldn't. His throat was too tight.
After the meeting, Elena lingered. "You moved the meeting."
"You needed sleep."
She studied him. "You're different today."
"So are you."
She smiled, soft and shy. "Dinner Wednesday? My place. I make a mean carbonara."
"It's a date."
Wednesday night, her apartment was everything the penthouse wasn't: cluttered, colorful, alive. Books stacked like Jenga towers. A half-finished mural on one wall—constellations made of subway maps. A record player spinning Billie Holiday.
Liam was there too—Maria had dropped him off after soccer practice. He was helping Elena grate parmesan with intense concentration, tongue poking out.
"Dad! Elena says carbonara is pasta with bacon and magic!"
Alexander laughed. "Close enough."
They ate on the floor, picnic-style, because the table was covered in art supplies. Liam fell asleep halfway through dessert—homemade tiramisu—curled against Alexander's side. Elena carried him to the guest room (she'd set up a sleeping bag with glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling).
When she returned, Alexander was washing dishes. She hip-checked him aside. "Guest doesn't clean."
"CEO does what he wants."
She flicked soap suds at him. He retaliated. Within minutes, they were both soaked, laughing like teenagers. The laughter faded into something quieter. Closer.
Elena's back was against the counter. Alexander's hands braced on either side of her. Their breathing synced.
"Slow," she whispered.
He nodded. But then she rose on her toes, and he met her halfway.
The kiss was soft at first—tentative, like testing a bridge. Then deeper, hungrier. Her hands slid into his hair. His thumbs traced the line of her jaw. The world narrowed to the taste of tiramisu and the scent of her skin—paint and vanilla and rain.
They broke apart, foreheads touching.
"Liam," he said, voice rough.
"Is asleep. And this is still slow." She smiled against his lips. "Just… accelerated slow."
He kissed her again, softer this time. A promise.
Later, he carried Liam home in a cab, the boy's head heavy on his shoulder. Elena walked them to the door, barefoot, hair wild.
"Wednesday again?" she asked.
"Every Wednesday," he said. "And Saturday. And maybe Tuesday."
She grinned. "Greedy."
"Learning."
As the cab pulled away, Alexander looked back. Elena stood in the doorway, lit by the hallway bulb, waving until they turned the corner.
In the quiet of the ride, Liam stirred. "Dad?"
"Yeah, bud?"
"Is Elena gonna be my mom?"
Alexander's heart stopped. Then started again, stronger.
"I don't know," he said honestly. "But I hope she wants to be part of our solar system."
Liam considered this. "She already is. She made Jupiter glow."
Alexander kissed the top of his son's head. "Yeah. She did."
To be continued in Chapter 6…