Chapter 3

I intercepted the two boxes in the underground parking garage.

The assistant blocked my path.

"Annie, this is Chris's arrangement."

"Those manuscripts are my personal property."

"Chris says Susan needs to familiarize herself with the R&D process for the press Q&A at the launch."

I peeled off the shipping label and clutched the manuscripts to my chest.

"If she wants to tell a story, she can tell her own."

The assistant tried to stop me again, but Lori burst out of the elevator and snatched the box away.

"Annie, stop making a scene!"

She moved too fast. The bottom of the box split open, and hundreds of pages scattered across the floor.

A cup of black coffee from a passing employee's hand tipped over, and brown liquid soaked through the oldest stack of calculation notes.

I crouched down to gather them.

The edges of the pages had fused together; they crumbled at the slightest touch.

Those were the last set of algorithm data my father had helped me work through in his study before he died.

He didn't understand computer programming, so he'd put on his reading glasses and checked each number for me, line by line.

Lori saw the handwriting on the pages. Her expression froze for a moment.

"They're just some rough drafts. Everything's backed up on the computer."

I looked up at her.

"That's Dad's handwriting."

Her lips moved, but she quickly looked away.

"If Dad were still alive, he wouldn't stand by and watch you destroy Chris's company either."

Becky knelt down to help me pick up the pages and whispered, "Annie, once Polaris goes public, Chris will give you a five percent project equity dividend. Cooperate, and we all win."

"You already knew he was giving the credit to Susan."

Her hand stopped.

I pressed her: "Iceland, the itinerary, the project—what else don't I know?"

Lori answered impatiently: "Chris just owes Susan closure. Back when they broke up, it was because Susan went to the mountain survey site on his behalf and got caught in the avalanche."

"And so?"

"Polaris was always something Chris made *for* Susan." Lori looked at me. "You were just the engineer who executed his vision."

Four years of R&D. Over seven hundred days and nights.

And in Lori's telling, I was merely the tool Chris used to bring his romantic gesture to life.

I clutched the salvaged pages and turned to leave.

Chris's video call came through on the assistant's phone.

"Let her answer."

The assistant handed me the device.

Behind Chris stretched an infinite night sky. Susan had fallen asleep against his shoulder.

He didn't push her away. He just lowered his voice.

"Susan has a Forbes interview tomorrow morning. Give her the manuscripts."

"No."

"Annie, you're too old for this kind of tantrum."

"Chris, do you even know whose handwriting is on those pages? My father's."

He was silent for a moment.

"I'll have a museum conservator restore them for you."

"They can't be restored."

"Then rewrite them." A note of weariness crept into his voice. "You're a professional engineer. There's no need to use a few old pages to make life difficult for someone with PTSD."

Becky interjected: "Chris, the media's already promoted Susan as the project originator. If the manuscripts don't reach her, the interview will fall apart."

Chris responded immediately: "Take the manuscripts."

The assistant stepped forward.

I stumbled backward into a wall, and the pages slipped from my arms again.

Lori seized the moment to grab the box. Becky positioned herself between us.

She said quietly, "Once the launch is over, I'll personally get them back for you."

Becky wouldn't meet my eyes.

On the phone, Chris wrapped everything up the way he always did.

"After the project wraps, I'll go back to the Upper East Side townhouse with you for a few days. Your father's study—I'll have it restored exactly as it was."

"What happened to the townhouse?"

Sudden silence all around.

Lori's face went white instantly.

I stared at her. "What did you do to the townhouse?"

"Last year the company had a cash flow crisis. To raise working capital, Chris used the house as collateral for a bank loan."

That Upper East Side house had passed from my grandfather to my father. It was the inheritance and the memory he'd left to Lori and me.

The deed was split fifty-fifty between us.

My signature had never appeared on any mortgage document.

"Who signed?"

Lori clutched the box tight.

"Annie, Chris promised me a big Manhattan apartment. I just figured the old house was sitting empty anyway."

"I asked you—*who signed?*"

She raised her head, eyes red.

"I forged your signature! Chris said that once Polaris went public, the loan would be paid off immediately!"

Chris didn't deny it.

He wasn't even rattled.

"Annie, I'll explain this when I'm back in New York. For now, sign the authorization papers—otherwise the bank will call the loan early, and the townhouse goes to forced auction."

The assistant produced legal documents at just the right moment.

The signature tab was already affixed to the last page.

I looked at Lori. I looked at Becky. I looked at the man on the screen who'd once promised to protect everything precious to me.

Then I took the Montblanc pen.

Chris's expression finally relaxed.

But he didn't see what I wrote in the authorization period field. It wasn't "permanent."

It was "seventy-two hours."

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