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“Hey there, Clara.” She looks genuinely pleased to see me as she swipes her own pass despite the button being already lit. She looks so pulled together, her striking red hair pulled back from her face and her outfit immaculate.

“Hi, Hannah, how are you?”

“I’m good. What brings you here today?”

That was a little direct. Troy said Hannah isn’t a girl’s girl, which is fine. But I really can’t help the feeling she doesn’t much like me.

“Lunch date,” I lie, hoisting my purse higher on my shoulder and wishing I’d nixed the glasses.

The elevator begins to move and, in its mirrored surface, I look mildly perturbed. I also look like I’m playing dress-up, cosplaying office vamp in her too-bright lipstick and inappropriate heels. Meanwhile, Hannah looks like the real deal. Effortlessly stylish and unbelievably chic in black wide-legged pants, low-heeled pumps, and a cream silk pussy-bow blouse I’m pretty sure is Tom Ford.

I try not to sigh. It’s like I’m in that old movie Working Girl. She’s Sigourney Weaver, the boss, and I’m Melanie Griffith, the impostor. Minus the ’80s big hair.

“He’s . . . intense today,” Hannah says suddenly.

“Busy?” My fingers tighten reflexively on the strap of my purse. Maybe I should’ve called ahead, but he said I was welcome anytime—he even gave me a pass.

“Focused,” she corrects gently. “Like he’s in another world. I’ve seen this version of him before,” she goes on, examining the wallet in her right hand. “It happens when he’s under a lot of pressure, but you’ll know that already. It’s like everything else fades into the background, except the thing he’s concentrating on.”

“Yes,” I reply, scrambling to cover my surprise with concern despite this sudden sinking feeling. He’s been okay with me. Hasn’t he? Where’s the pressure come from? Is there something he isn’t telling me? Has the stock fallen? I’ve played my part—there have been multiple snapshots in the press and the socials of us eating brunch together, leaving events together, looking all loved up. Feeling the same.

“I haven’t seen him like this in an age.” Hannah frowns, which makes her words seem less of a slight somehow. The moment stretches between us, not sharp but not exactly comfortable. “The problem with focus is that everything else gets left by the wayside.”

Is she talking about me or her? Warning me?

“There was a time in the past,” she begins almost carefully, “when personal matters collided with a high-stake point in his life.”

Clinical words but we both know what she means. Something heavy and unpleasant drops into the pit of my stomach.

“He couldn’t see past his . . . circumstances, I suppose. It could’ve gone badly.” A frown ripples across her brow. “In fact, it almost did.”

“You’re talking about his last year of college,” I say softly. “About me.”

“It was a long time ago,” she concedes.

“I hurt him. I know that.” I wish he’d told me she knows, but I can’t be angry with her when she’s just looking out for her friend. “But this isn’t like before.” Not like before, but it’s also not how it’s supposed to be.

“I know he’s happy, Clara. He’s been happier than I’ve seen him in a long time.” My heart lifts as though it has wings. “He’s even been seen leaving the office before ten,” she says with a faint smile. “But this week something has changed. I’m worried about him.”

“Because you’re a good friend.”

“Something is going on,” she says, disregarding the compliment. “People tend to react one of a few ways when things get tough. Some people soften under pressure. Some harden, and others brace.” Her eyes meet mine in the mirror again. “Then there are those who push through at all costs. Troy is usually in the latter camp. But right now, it’s like I see him bracing.”

Bracing for the worst—preparing for impact?

“He almost walked away from it all back then.”

“That won’t happen.” My answer is strong with conviction. Whatever’s going on, whatever this is, I know he won’t walk away from the empire he’s built. It’s part of him. Part of his identity.

I would never ask him—never expect him to.

The elevator doors glide open, and Hannah gestures me ahead. “Take care of him,” she says as I pass. “And yourself.”

My mouth turns down as she walks away. But then I notice the receptionist, Wendy, smiling. I return the gesture, but she’s already lowered her head. It feels like a signal: You’re on your own here.

Maybe Hannah was being polite, and when she said focused she meant he’s in a really bad mood.

I pass Paolo’s empty desk, and by the time I reach Troy’s office, my pulse is hammering and I’m having second, third, and fourth thoughts, my brain flipping from thought to thought like a chronic channel hopper.