Dinner at the same place. Private room. Candles. Wine.
Julian was already there when I arrived. Standing by the window, looking out at the city. He turned when I walked in.
"No cat socks tonight," he said.
"I own other socks."
He almost smiled. We sat.
The food came. We ate. Talked about work. The encryption protocol. A new vulnerability I'd found. A fix I'd proposed.
Somewhere between the main course and dessert, the conversation shifted.
"Sloane's lawyers approached me," he said. "They want me to testify. Character witness. Say she's not capable of this."
"What did you tell them?"
"I told them I'd think about it."
I put down my fork. "You're not actually considering it."
"I'm considering what it does to my mother. She's seventy-two. Her health isn't good. This is killing her."
I looked at him. Really looked. For the first time, he didn't look like a billionaire. He looked like a son.
"What do you want to do?"
"I don't know. That's the problem."
We sat in silence for a moment.
Then I said: "My sister Willa. She told me I was going to die at Dorian's hands. Years ago. She said it would be a golf club or a car accident. She was half right."
Julian watched me.
"I didn't listen. I loved him. Or thought I did. I made excuses. Ignored signs. Told myself it was fine." I picked up my wine. "Love makes you stupid."
"You're not stupid."
"No. But I was. For a long time."
He nodded slowly. "My mother loves Sloane. Has since the day she was born. Different father, same mother. She always tried to make it equal. Always tried to compensate. Gave Sloane more because she needed it. Gave me less because I could handle it."
"That's not fair."
"Fair doesn't matter to mothers."
I thought about Willa. How she'd taken me in without question. How she'd fed me and clothed me and never asked for anything.
"Your mother will survive," I said. "She'll be angry. She'll blame you. But she'll survive. Sloane made choices. Those choices have consequences. You're not responsible for them."
He looked at me for a long moment.
"When did you get so wise?"
"About three seconds after I woke up on a steel slab."
He laughed. Low and rough.
"I'm not testifying for her."
"Good."
"I'll tell my mother tonight."
"Good."
Dessert came. We ate it. The conversation moved to other things. Lighter things. Movies. Music. Places we'd traveled.
At the end, he walked me out. The car was waiting.
"I'll see you tomorrow," he said.
"Tomorrow."
I got in. The door closed. The driver pulled away.
My phone buzzed. Willa: "How was date?"
I typed back: "Dinner. Not date."
Her reply: "Sure."
I smiled. Put the phone away.
The next morning, Julian wasn't at his desk.
I worked through the protocol. Fixed the vulnerability. Met with my team. Answered emails.
At noon, he still wasn't there.
At 2, I got a text: "Meeting with mother. Will update later."
At 6, as I was packing up, he appeared in my doorway. Looked exhausted.
"How'd it go?"
"She cried. Screamed. Blamed me. Then cried again. Said she never should have asked me to hire Sloane. Said she knew something was wrong but ignored it."
"That's a lot."
"It's everything." He sat in the chair across from my desk. "She's not speaking to me. For now. Said she needs time."
"Give her time."
He nodded. Looked at my monitors. The code I'd been working on.
"You fixed it."
"The vulnerability? Yeah. It's clean now."
"Good."
He stood up. Headed for the door. Stopped.
"Mara?"
"Yeah?"
"Dinner tomorrow?"
I looked at him. "Same place?"
"Same place."
"Okay."
He left.
I sat there for a moment. Then packed up and went home.
The next two weeks followed a pattern. Work. Dinner. Work. Dinner. Not every night. But enough.
We never called it dating. We called it debriefing. Or strategy sessions. Or just dinner.
Willa called it something else.
"You're seeing him," she said one night. "Admit it."
"I'm working with him. Sometimes we eat food afterward."
"You're seeing him."
"He's not my type."
"What's your type?"
"Not billionaires with family drama."
She laughed. "Everyone has family drama. You have family drama. I have family drama. The cats have family drama."
The cats looked up at their names. Then ignored us.
"He's different," I said. "Quiet. Careful. Doesn't push."
"That's called respect, Mara. It's what normal people do."
"I wouldn't know. I married Dorian."
She stopped laughing. "Fair point."
The weeks turned into a month.
Sloane's trial was set for six months out. She was still in custody. No bail. Federal judges didn't play.
Dorian was in county jail, awaiting transfer to state prison. His lawyers were appealing. No one thought they'd win.
I kept working. The encryption protocol went live. Julian put my name on it. Lead Architect. Mara Cross.
The tech press noticed. "Croft Security Hires Viral Sensation as Head of Security." "The Dead Wife Who Codes." "From Morgue to C-Suite."
I ignored it.
Then, on a Thursday night, Julian showed up at my door.
Not Willa's. Mine. I'd gotten an apartment. Small. One bedroom. View of the city. A cast iron pan I'd bought myself.
He stood in the hallway. Holding wine.
"I know it's late," he said. "I just—"
"Come in."
He came in. Looked around. The sparse furniture. The city view. The pan on the stove.
"This is nice."
"It's mine. First place that's just mine in years."
He nodded. Handed me the wine.
"I need to tell you something."
I took the wine. Didn't open it. Just waited.
"Sloane's lawyers offered a deal. She pleads guilty, gets ten years instead of twenty. She's considering it."
"That's good, right?"
"It's good. But there's more." He sat on my small couch. Looked at his hands. "She wants to talk to you."
"Me?"
"She asked specifically. Said she needs to apologize. In person. Before she decides."
I stared at him.
"You're joking."
"I'm not."
"Why would I do that?"
"I don't know. I'm just delivering the message." He looked up. "You don't have to. No one expects you to."
I thought about it. Sloane in a prison visiting room. Sloane apologizing. Sloane playing victim one last time.
"When?"
"Tomorrow. If you want. Her lawyers can arrange it."
I sat down across from him.
"What do you think?"
"I think she's playing a game. She always plays games. But I also think—" He stopped.
"What?"
"I also think closure is real. For you. Not for her."
I looked out the window. The city glittered. Millions of lights. Millions of lives.
"I'll think about it."
He nodded. Stood up. "I should go."
"Stay."
He looked at me.
"Just for a bit. I'll open the wine."
He sat back down.
I opened the wine. Poured two glasses. We sat on my small couch and watched the city and didn't talk.
After a while, he said: "I'm glad you're alive, Mara."
"Me too."
We drank our wine. The city glittered. The pan sat on the stove.