At thirty-six, Victoria had mastered the art of appearing untouched by uncertainty. Sterling Living, the furniture company she had built from a struggling regional manufacturer into an international design and retail business, now operated across three continents. That morning she had signed an investment agreement worth several hundred million dollars, a deal large enough to move markets and make strangers online argue about whether she deserved her success. During the signing she had shaken hands with people who congratulated her as though they had given her something, rather than purchased a share in what she had already built.
Her success was real, and it had come at a price she rarely allowed herself to calculate. She had missed birthdays, funerals, school reunions, and almost every quiet Sunday of the last decade. She had learned to eat meals while reading contracts and to measure sleep in the hours she could afford to sacrifice. Her employees called her brilliant; her competitors called her merciless; the newspapers preferred colder words because they photographed well beside her face. Victoria had stopped correcting any of them years ago.
When Ethan finally called with the first update, she was in a private conference room overlooking the city. "The driver checked the rear seats and trunk," he said. "Nothing. Building security is reviewing the entrance cameras, but that section of the sidewalk belongs to the city. We can file a report if you want."
"File it," she replied. "And ask security whether anyone turned in a wallet."
"Of course. Is there anything else inside I should mention?"
Victoria looked at the rain beginning to collect against the windows. "A ring," she said after a pause. "Small. Gold. Blue stone. It was my mother's."
Ethan's voice softened. "I'll make sure they know."
She ended the call before he could say more. Then she stood in front of the glass and watched the streets far below, where pedestrians appeared small and interchangeable from the thirty-eighth floor. She had negotiated with investors who threatened to pull hundreds of millions, endured lawsuits she knew were meant to intimidate her, and stood across conference tables from men who assumed her youth made her easy to corner. Losing a wallet should have been ordinary. Instead, for the first time that day, she wanted someone to tell her everything would be all right.
Across the city, Daniel Brooks was having an entirely different kind of afternoon. His workshop stood behind a narrow wooden house on a street shaded by maples and tired old elms. Its windows needed repainting, the door dragged when the air was humid, and the workbench had been patched so many times that its original surface was almost impossible to identify. None of those things bothered Daniel. A room did not need to impress anybody to be useful, and useful rooms had always made him happier than beautiful ones he was afraid to touch.