All Chapters of EYES OPEN: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

I wake up before Rhys.London light is different. It comes through the floor to ceiling windows at a lower angle than home, softer, more grey than gold, and it falls across the bed and across him and I lie on my side watching him sleep for a moment with the particular shameless appreciation of a woman who knows exactly what is underneath those sheets and has very few complaints.He is on his back, one arm above his head, sheet sitting low on his stomach, and the line of his chest and the cut of his abs and the way the morning light moves across all of it does something to me that bypasses sensible thought entirely.I slide closer.I run my hand flat across his stomach slowly and he stirs without waking, breath shifting, body already responding before his mind catches up, and I smile against his shoulder.I move my hand lower.He is already half hard under my palm and I wrap my hand around him slowly and he inhales sharply, eyes still closed, hips tilting toward me with an instinct he

Monday arrives with rain and purpose.I am up at six without an alarm, which is just how I am wired on days that matter, and I shower and dress while Rhys takes the seven am construction call at the kitchen table in yesterday's shirt with coffee and his laptop and the focused quiet of a man already completely inside his work day.I stand in front of the bedroom mirror in the black dress I bought specifically for this, structured, sharp, the kind that says I am not here to be liked, I am here to be exceptional, and I put on the earrings that were my grandmother's and look at myself for a moment.Senior Creative Director.Harlow Creative Group.London.Yeah.I come out to the kitchen and Rhys looks up from his call, sees me, and does a thing with his expression that is deeply unprofessional and completely satisfying.He puts his call on mute."You look devastating," he says."Thank you," I say, pouring coffee.He unmutes. Goes back to talking about load bearing walls. I eat toast at the

We see four apartments in six hours.Rhys has a spreadsheet. An actual spreadsheet, colour coded, with columns for light quality, ceiling height, proximity to both our offices, and a column he has labelled character which contains notes like original cornicing intact and south facing kitchen which tells me everything about how this man approaches decisions.I find it unbearably attractive.The first apartment is in Islington. Beautiful building, wrong energy, the kind of space that has been renovated so thoroughly it has forgotten what it was. We are in and out in twelve minutes. Rhys puts a red mark in the character column without discussing it and I do not argue because I felt it too the moment we walked in.The second is in Fitzrovia. Better bones, better light, a living room that does something interesting with the afternoon sun, but the bedroom is wrong and the kitchen is an afterthought and I stand in it thinking about cooking together on Sunday mornings and feel nothing."No."

The Meridian client is a man named Gerard Foss.Fifties, self made, the kind of man who built Something real from nothing and has spent the subsequent twenty years being told by people in expensive offices that his instincts are wrong. He walks into Harlow's boardroom on Wednesday morning with the defensive energy of someone who has been managed rather than heard for four years and has learned to expect more of the same.He stops when he sees me.Not because I am impressive. Because I am unexpected."I was told Helena would be running this," he says to the room generally."Helena runs the company," I say, standing. "I run your account. Camille Vann, Senior Creative Director. Sit down Mr. Foss, I have something to show you."He sits. Slowly. The way people sit when they are deciding whether to be offended.Priya is to my left. Saoirse is at the end of the table with her research open on three screens simultaneously, which she set up herself at seven this morning when I arrived to find

I am at Harlow at seven thirty.Before the cleaners finish. Before the front desk staffs up. Before anyone except Helena, who I already know arrives at seven because her assistant mentioned it once and I noted that immediately the way I note everything.Her office door is open.She is at her desk in a grey blazer with reading glasses on, working through something on her screen, and she looks up when I appear in the doorway with the specific unsurprise of a woman who expected this visit but not quite this early."Ms. Vann," she says."The Dublin consortium..." I watch her face.She does not flinch. Does not perform confusion. Does not reach for a deflection. She takes her glasses off and sets them on the desk and looks at me with the clean direct gaze of someone who has been caught and has decided that the only viable response is honesty."Sit down," she says."I am fine standing." She looks at me for a moment. Then she stands too, because Helena Cross does not have conversations fro