Ch 7: Elena—“You Still Keep Them”

Sofia is already dissecting her croissant when I slide into the booth at Balthazar.

"You're thirteen minutes late." She doesn't look up from her surgical butter application. "New record."

"Ava wanted pancakes. Mrs. Patel was running behind." I flag down a waiter. "Eggs Benedict. Extra hollandaise. And whatever she's drinking."

"Champagne. It's eleven AM on a Sunday, and I earned it." Sofia takes a long sip, leaving a lipstick print on crystal. "Fired three people yesterday. One cried. One threatened to sue. One asked if I was single."

"Which one did you feel bad about?"

"The crier. He had student loans and a cat named Mr. Whiskers. Showed me photos." She tears off a piece of croissant. "The lawsuit guy can rot. And the single one had terrible shoes. Brown with a navy suit. Unforgivable."

I almost smile. This is us—Sunday mornings, ridiculous gossip. We've been doing this since Columbia, when brunch meant diner coffee and stolen bagels from the student center.

"How's Daniel?" she asks, casual.

"Fine."

"Fine like 'great in bed' or fine like 'I'm avoiding the question'?"

"Fine like I don't want to discuss it over eggs." I accept my champagne from the waiter. The bubbles feel aggressive this early.

"So you’re avoiding it." She signals for more champagne. "Does he know you're still—"

"Still what?"

She pauses. Studies my face the way she studies contracts—looking for the clause that'll destroy the whole agreement.

"Nothing. Forget it." She pivots. "How's Ava?"

"She asked why the moon follows our car yesterday. Took me twenty minutes to explain gravity to a four-year-old who thinks magic is a more reasonable explanation."

"Interesting!"

"She said 'that's silly, Mommy' and went back to singing about princesses who marry frogs." I take a sip from my glass of champagne. "Apparently the frog prince is her current obsession. Mrs. Patel says she's been drawing him all week."

"Kids and their fairy tales." Sofia's voice goes soft. "Remember when we believed in that stuff? True love. Happy endings. Men who actually stay."

"We were idiots."

"We were twenty-two." She butters another piece of croissant with focused precision. "Now we know better."

My eggs arrive—perfect, golden, exactly how I like them. I watch steam rise from the hollandaise, buying time before Sofia says whatever she came here to say.

She invited me here. Emergency text around 8 AM. Which means this brunch has an agenda.

"So," Sofia speaks, too light, "I organized your office last Tuesday."

My fork pauses halfway to my mouth.

"You asked me to sort the sensitive stuff you don't trust your assistant with." She's still buttering her croissant. Not looking at me. "Had to go through your desk drawers. The bottom one stuck—you really need to fix that. Anyways," she sets down her knife, "I found your collection while I was filing."

My throat goes tight. "What collection?"

"Twenty-three. I counted." Now she looks up. Eyes too knowing. Too gentle. "Arranged by date. In the back of your bottom drawer. Behind the NDAs and some acquisition files."

I set down my fork with more force than necessary. The clatter draws looks from nearby tables.

"They're evidence," I manage to say.

"Of what?"

"His pattern. His strategy. I need to understand—"

"Elena." Sofia's voice goes soft. The tone she uses when she’s certain she’ll win a negotiation. "I've known you for more ten years. I was there when you built Sinclair Technologies from a dorm room idea and three maxed-out credit cards. I watched you become the woman who makes venture capitalists cry during pitch meetings."

"What’s your point?"

"You don't keep evidence in the back of a drawer." She leans forward. "You keep things that matter. Things you're not ready to throw away but can't bear to look at directly."

I stare at my eggs. They've gone cold while we've been talking, congealing into something unappetizing. Just like this entire conversation.

"Last week you cancelled three dinners with me," Sofia continues. "You never cancel. You schedule board meetings around our time. You've rescheduled with venture capitalists to keep our Sundays sacred. But suddenly you're too busy?"

"Work have been—"

"You're lighter." She cuts through my excuse. "You smile at your phone when you think no one's looking. You hum in the mornings—Mrs. Patel told me. She said you haven't hummed since before Adrian left. Since you were that girl who believed in fairy tales."

"Mrs. Patel needs to mind her business."

"Mrs. Patel loves you. We all do." Sofia reaches across the table but doesn't touch me. Her hand hovers over mine. "So I'm going to ask you something, and I need you to really think about the answer. Don't give me your CEO response. Don't strategize. Just be honest."

I wait, staring at my champagne glass. 

"When he finally breaks after you've proven your point and won your revenge—will that actually make you feel better?" Her eyes hold mine. "Or will you just have destroyed the only man who ever knew the real you?"

"I—"

“Not the polished, powerful, untouchable woman who negotiates billion-dollar deals before breakfast."

She pauses. Her voice drops to something almost painful. "The girl you who debugged code at 3 AM in coffee-stained pajamas and pizza boxes. The same girl believed in love and happily ever after before the world taught you better"

My vision blurs. I blink it back.

"He knew that girl," Sofia whispers. "Maybe you're trying to destroy the part of yourself that still believes she could come back."

"He deserves—" My voice cracks. I try again. "He deserves to suffer for what he—"

But I can't finish. The words die in my throat because somewhere between the beginning of that sentence and the end, I stopped believing them.

Sofia reaches across the table. Squeezes my hand. Her grip is warm, solid, real.

"I'm not telling you what to do. I'm just asking you to be honest about what you want." She releases my hand, stands, drops two hundred-dollar bills on the waiter’s table. More than enough for brunch and a generous tip. "I have to go. Client meeting in an hour. Think about it, okay?"

She kisses the top of my head—something she hasn't done since we were kids sharing that terrible apartment with the broken heater.

Then she leaves.

I sit alone with cold eggs and her unanswered question.

The waiter approaches. "Can I get you anything else, miss?"

"No. Just the check."

"Your friend already—"

"I know." I stand, leaving the untouched food. "Thank you."

***

The walk home takes forty-three minutes.

I could've called my driver. Could've been home in fifteen. But my feet carry me through Central Park instead, past couples walking dogs and families on bicycles and old men playing chess.

I end up on a bench near Bethesda Fountain. Watch tourists take selfies with the angel statue. Watch a little girl chase pigeons while her mother watches with exhausted patience.

My phone buzzes. Text from Daniel: “Dinner tonight? I'm off at six. Been thinking about that Thai place you love.”

I stare at the message. Daniel who wants to take me to dinner and probably talk about our future. Who's been patient while I've been . . . what? Playing games with a man I'm supposed to hate?

I don't respond.

Another buzz. Adrian: “I know you're probably busy. Just wanted to say I hope you're having a good day. —A”

That's it. No demands. No pressure. Just Adrian being present. Existing in my periphery like gravity.

I pocket my phone without responding to either of them.

Mrs. Patel has Ava at the playground. My penthouse is silent except for the sound of my own breathing and the city humming twenty-three floors below.

I stand in my office. Pull open the bottom drawer.

Twenty-three cream-colored notes. Arranged chronologically. Each one in his precise handwriting.

Thank you for the chance. I know I don't deserve it. | I saw you laugh at something your assistant said. I'd forgotten what your real laugh sounds like. It's still my favorite sound.

I read them all. Every single one. Let each word sink in like rain on parched earth.

Then I close the drawer and walk to my bedroom window, staring out at Central Park where I just sat on a bench avoiding my entire life.

Sofia's question echoes: When he finally breaks, will that make you feel better?

And for the first time in five years, I don't know the answer. Worse—I'm terrified to find out.