Chapter One

Chapter 1: The Quiet Years

The morning light filtered through the lace curtains of the small bedroom Veronica Hale had occupied since she was eighteen. At forty, the room still smelled faintly of the lavender sachets her mother insisted on tucking into every drawer. Nothing had really changed. The same oak dresser with the chipped corner from when she’d slammed it in anger at seventeen. The same twin bed with the faded floral quilt her grandmother had sewn. The same framed photograph on the nightstand of her wedding day—smiling too wide, eyes too hopeful, standing beside a man who would eventually decide she was no longer enough.

She stared at the ceiling, listening to the soft clink of dishes downstairs. Her parents were already awake, moving through the familiar choreography of breakfast. Her father would be reading the morning paper, grumbling about the rising cost of fuel. Her mother would be humming an old hymn while she scrambled eggs. Routine. Safe. Suffocating.

Veronica closed her eyes. Thirty-nine days since her forty-first birthday. She hadn’t celebrated. There had been a small cake, yes—vanilla with too much icing, the way her mother liked it—and a card signed by both parents in careful, matching handwriting. But no party. No friends calling to toast her. The few people she’d once called close had drifted away during the divorce, choosing sides or simply choosing silence.

She sat up slowly, bare feet touching the cool hardwood floor. The mirror across the room reflected a woman she barely recognized some days. Dark auburn hair still thick, though she now wore it in a low, practical knot instead of the loose waves she’d once favored. Hazel eyes that used to sparkle with mischief now carried a careful stillness. Fine lines had begun to frame her mouth and eyes—not deep, but present. Proof that time did not pause, even when a person wished it would.

Downstairs, the smell of coffee pulled her forward like a tether.

“Good morning, darling,” her mother said without turning from the stove. Margaret Hale was sixty-eight and still moved with the brisk efficiency of a woman who believed idleness was a sin. “Your father’s already on his second cup. You know how he gets when the news is bad.”

Veronica offered a small smile. “I’ll take mine black, please.”

Her father, Thomas, lowered the newspaper just enough to peer over the top. “You look tired, Vee.”

“I’m fine, Dad.”

He studied her a moment longer, then returned to the article about the new flyover project downtown. Conversation over.

Veronica sat at the small kitchen table, cradling the warm mug her mother placed in front of her. The silence that followed was comfortable in the way worn shoes are comfortable—familiar, but beginning to pinch.

Margaret finally turned, wiping her hands on her apron. “I spoke to Mrs. Carter yesterday. You remember her daughter Claire? The one who works in human resources at that big fashion house downtown—Lawson Luxe?”

Veronica’s fingers tightened around the mug. “I remember Claire. We went to the same secondary school for a while.”

“She said they’re hiring. Not designers—administrative. Senior executive assistant to the CEO. Full benefits, good salary. Claire thought you’d be perfect.”

Veronica’s stomach gave a small, involuntary lurch. “I haven’t worked in an office in… eight years.”

“Exactly,” Margaret said, voice gentle but firm. “Eight years is long enough to mourn what happened. You’re still young, Veronica. You’re educated. You’re capable. And you cannot keep living here like you’re waiting for permission to start your life again.”

Thomas cleared his throat. “Your mother’s right. You’re not a child anymore.”

The words landed softly, but they still stung. Veronica looked down into her coffee. “I know.”

Margaret came to sit beside her, reaching for her hand. “We love having you here. You know that. But love sometimes means letting someone go find their own air to breathe. You deserve your own life, Vee. Your own space. Your own… future.”

Veronica swallowed. “And if I fail again?”

“Then you fail,” her mother said simply. “But at least you’ll have tried. And we’ll still be here. Always.”

For the first time in months, Veronica felt something stir beneath the heavy blanket of resignation she’d wrapped around herself. Not hope, exactly. Something smaller. Curiosity, perhaps. The faint whisper of what-if.

She took a slow breath. “Send me the link. I’ll apply.”

Margaret’s face brightened like sunrise. “I already did. The interview is next Tuesday. Ten a.m.”

Veronica almost laughed. Of course her mother had already moved the chess pieces. She always had.

That night, after her parents had gone to bed, Veronica sat at the small desk in the corner of her room with her laptop open. The job posting glowed on the screen.

**Senior Executive Assistant**  

**Lawson Luxe Headquarters**  

**Direct report: CEO Sandra Lawson**

The name hit her like cold water.

Sandra Lawson.

Not Lawson as in the brand. Lawson as in *her*—the girl who’d once braided Veronica’s hair in the dorm bathroom at university, who’d cried with her after her first heartbreak, who’d promised they would be friends forever. The same Sandra who’d stopped answering calls after Veronica’s wedding, after the whispers started, after the misunderstanding neither of them had ever quite explained.

Veronica had assumed Sandra simply moved on. Became too busy. Became too successful. Became someone who no longer needed the girl who’d chosen a safe marriage over ambition.

Now Sandra owned one of the most talked-about fashion houses in the city. And Veronica was about to walk into her office asking for a job.

She stared at the screen until her eyes burned.

She could cancel the interview. Pretend she’d changed her mind. Stay in this quiet, predictable life where nothing ever surprised her again.

Or…

She clicked the application portal.

Her fingers trembled only slightly as she began to type.

The interview room on the forty-second floor of Lawson Luxe Tower smelled of expensive leather, fresh orchids, and power.

Veronica smoothed the charcoal pencil skirt she’d bought specifically for today—the first new piece of clothing she’d purchased in three years. The cream silk blouse beneath it felt foreign against her skin, too crisp, too deliberate. She’d pulled her hair into a sleek chignon, applied the barest hint of makeup. She wanted to look professional. She wanted to look like someone who belonged here.

She did not want to look like the woman who had once loved the same boy Sandra had dated for three months in their second year, the boy who’d later become Veronica’s husband. The boy who had eventually chosen someone else entirely.

She hadn’t thought of Daniel in months. Today, the memory felt like a bruise she kept pressing.

“Ms. Hale?”

Veronica stood quickly. The woman who approached was young—maybe twenty-eight—with a bright smile and a tablet clutched to her chest.

“I’m Claire Carter. It’s so good to see you again! Come with me. Mrs. Lawson is ready.”

Veronica followed, pulse loud in her ears.

They passed glass-walled offices, racks of sample garments, mood boards covered in fabric swatches and Polaroids. The energy was electric, purposeful. Veronica felt every year she’d spent in limbo like a weight on her shoulders.

Claire knocked once on a frosted glass door before pushing it open.

“Mrs. Lawson, Veronica Hale is here for her ten o’clock.”

Sandra Lawson stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, back to the door, looking out over the glittering city skyline. She wore a tailored emerald-green blazer over black trousers, hair swept into an elegant twist. Even from behind, she radiated the kind of effortless authority that made people straighten their spines.

She turned.

Time collapsed.

Sandra’s face was the same and not. The sharp cheekbones were sharper. The dark eyes were wiser, more guarded. But the smile, when it came, was the same one that had once lit up their tiny dorm room at three in the morning.

“Veronica,” she said softly. Not a question. A recognition.

Veronica’s throat closed. “Sandra.”

For a long moment neither moved.

Claire glanced between them, sensing the undercurrent. “I’ll… leave you two to it. Coffee?”

“No, thank you,” Sandra said, never taking her eyes off Veronica. “That will be all, Claire.”

The door clicked shut.

Sandra crossed the room slowly, stopping a few feet away. “I didn’t know it was you. Claire only gave me the last name.”

“I didn’t know you were the CEO when I applied,” Veronica admitted. “Not until I saw the posting.”

Sandra studied her. “You look… good.”

Veronica gave a small, wry smile. “You mean I look older.”

“I mean you look like someone who’s survived,” Sandra corrected quietly.

Silence stretched between them, heavy with unsaid things.

Sandra gestured to the two leather chairs across from her desk. “Sit. Please.”

Veronica sat. The chair was impossibly comfortable. She hated how small it made her feel.

Sandra took the seat opposite, crossing long legs. “Why now? After all these years?”

Veronica met her gaze. “Because I’m tired of waiting for my life to begin.”

Something flickered in Sandra’s expression respect, maybe. Or recognition.

“I read your CV,” Sandra said. “You have the experience. You have the degree. You have the references. What you don’t have is recent employment history.”

“I know.”

“Why the gap?”

Veronica considered lying. Then discarded the idea. “I was married. It ended badly. I… retreated.”

Sandra nodded slowly. “I heard. I’m sorry.”

“Are you?”

The question slipped out before Veronica could stop it.

Sandra didn’t flinch. “I should have called. After the divorce. I thought about it more times than I can count. I just… didn’t know what to say.”

“You could have said anything,” Veronica said quietly. “Even ‘I told you so.’”

Sandra’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “I never wanted to say that. I just wanted you to be happy.”

Veronica looked away, blinking hard. “Well. That didn’t quite work out.”

Another silence.

Sandra leaned forward. “The position is demanding. Long hours. High pressure. Travel. You’ll be my shadow. My filter. My second brain. Are you ready for that?”

Veronica lifted her chin. “I’m ready to try.”

Sandra watched her for a long moment. Then she stood.

“I’ll have HR send the offer letter by end of day. Six-month probation. If it works, we’ll talk permanent.”

Veronica stood too, legs unsteady. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Sandra said. “You may hate me by next month.”

“I doubt that.”

Sandra’s gaze softened. “I missed you, Vee.”

The old nickname pierced something deep inside Veronica’s chest.

“I missed you too,” she whispered.

Sandra walked her to the door. Just before Veronica stepped out, Sandra touched her arm lightly.

“One more thing,” she said. “My son sometimes comes by the office after classes. He’s… opinionated. Don’t let him intimidate you.”

Veronica smiled faintly. “I think I can handle one opinionated twenty-something.”

Sandra’s laugh was soft, surprised. “We’ll see.”

The door closed behind her.

Veronica walked down the gleaming corridor, heart pounding with something she hadn’t felt in years.

Possibility.

She didn’t notice the young man watching her from the glass conference room across the hall.

Tall. Dark hair falling slightly into sharp hazel eyes. A charcoal blazer thrown carelessly over a white T-shirt. He leaned against the table, arms crossed, studying her with quiet, unmistakable interest.

Ethan Lawson.

Twenty-five years old.

And already wondering who the woman was who’d made his mother smile like she used to when he was a boy.