My fiancé gave my reserved train seat to his 23-year-old intern even though he knew I was twelve weeks pregnant and struggling with nausea.

The dinner moved through its courses the way these things always did — carefully, expensively, with conversation calibrated to feel relaxed while everyone at the table was working.

Richard Holt, the lead partner at Scott Global, sat at the head.

He was in his sixties, deliberate in the way he spoke, the kind of man who listened more than he talked and remembered everything.

I had spent four months building a relationship with him over calls, revised proposals, and one long lunch in New York where we had talked for two hours about the direction his company was trying to move.

Luke had not been at that lunch.

"Clover," Richard said, midway through the main course, "I want to say before tomorrow — the restructuring proposal your team sent over in March was exceptional.

The section on phased integration alone saved us three weeks of internal debate."

"Thank you," I said.

"That section came out of a conversation you and I had in February.

You mentioned the timeline pressure, and it seemed like the right problem to solve first."

Richard nodded slowly.

"You remembered that."

"I keep notes."

Luke set his knife down with a small, precise movement.

"The whole team contributed to that proposal," he said.

"It was a real group effort."

Richard looked at him briefly, then back to me.

"Of course." He picked up his glass.

"Still.

Good work."

Across the table, Dana looked down at her plate.

She was hiding a smile.

Luke did not look at me for the rest of the main course.

He redirected his attention to the two junior Scott Global executives on his side of the table, turning on the version of himself that worked well in rooms like this — relaxed, confident, good at making people feel included.

It was one of the things I had genuinely admired about him when we first met.

He was talented at the social architecture of business.

He just was not always the one who had done the actual work underneath it.

After dessert, Richard excused himself briefly.

Luke leaned toward me immediately.

"You didn't have to do that," he said.

"Do what?"

"Make it about you."

I looked at him.

"He asked me a direct question.

I answered it."

"You know what I mean, Clover."

"I really don't," I said.

"But I think we should focus on tomorrow."

He held my gaze for a moment.

Something moved behind his eyes — not anger exactly, but a recalculation.

He was deciding something.

"We need to talk tonight," he said.

"After this."

"We can talk," I said.

"But not tonight."

He leaned back.

"The wedding—"

"Luke." My voice stayed level.

"Not tonight."

Richard returned to the table and the conversation opened back up, and Luke did not try again for the rest of the evening.

When the dinner ended, I said my goodbyes, shook Richard's hand, and told him I was looking forward to the morning.

He said he was as well.

He said it looking directly at me.

In the elevator going down, Dana stood beside me.

We waited until the doors closed.

"He told the junior team this morning that he was leading the closing," she said.

I pressed the button for my floor.

"I know."

"Clover—"

"I have it handled."

"Do you need anything from me?"

I thought about the document on my phone.

The draft custody agreement with his name at the top and mine listed as the respondent.

The clause about my travel.

The paralegal's apologetic follow-up.

"Not yet," I said.

"But I'll tell you when I do."

The elevator opened on my floor.

I stepped out and turned back.

"Dana.

Who submitted the final proposal to Scott Global?

Officially.

On record."

She didn't hesitate.

"You did.

Your name is on the cover page and the submission confirmation."

"Good," I said.

"I'll see you at nine."

I went back to my room, sat at the small desk by the window, and opened my laptop.

Ruth had sent the name of a family lawyer — a woman named Patricia Osei, based in New York, with a note that said she was thorough, fast, and did not lose often.

I wrote down the name and number.

Then I opened the original proposal document — the one with my name on the cover — and I read through the executive summary one more time.

Not because I had forgotten it.

Because I wanted to remember exactly what I had built, in my own words, before I walked into that room tomorrow morning and made sure it stayed mine.

Outside, the harbor lights reflected off the water in long broken lines.

My phone buzzed once.

A message from an unknown number.

*Ms.

Clover — this is Patricia Osei.

Ruth gave me the background.

I've reviewed what she forwarded.

Call me when you're ready.