Loving Paige

Prologue

As the first snowflake settled, it whispered secrets of a winter tale waiting to unfold.

A past buried in fresh powder.

A whiteout of all I’d left behind.

Then, a gloriously barren landscape, awaiting a new beginning. Our beginning.

Chapter 1

“Shit, shit, shit.”

I stumble out of the ladies. Cashmere bundled around my hips, unfastened and gapping. Not my usual level of decorum, but the complete absence of life on the fortieth floor is forgiving, unlike the consequences of being late. Again. I hurtle down the corridor and into the glass terrarium I call my office, panoramic views of a city painted black, smog blotting out any glimmer of starlight. It’s a muted skyline I know too well and a jarring indication of the late hour. Contracts, logs, and a handful of Post-it notes spill into my bottom drawer in one clean swipe, and I quickly set an out-of-office reply, re-directing my emails to my assistant, Mrs. Higgins.

I’m late, and I can almost feel his ire scolding the nape of my neck. It’s the only thought keeping my haphazardly discarded paperwork safe from re-organization. That, and the barrage of messages on my phone.

8:19pm: I don’t like waiting, Blair.

8:20pm: If you loved me at all you’d be on time.

8:21pm: Where are you? You have ten minutes to walk through this door.

8:23pm: Is this another punishment I haven’t earned? Don’t I give enough to you Blair? You have to make me look foolish too?

8:25pm: If I have to remove you from that desk, you can consider it PERMANENT.

I slam the drawer shut. Snatching my Saint Laurent tote and satin Manolo Blahnik’s. I turn for the door and let out a startled peep that carries through the empty floor. A tall, shadowy figure in the doorway sends my hand securely around the gapping neckline of my dress. Then dim light glimmers off silvery blonde hair and a royal blue Brioni, and I sigh my relief.

“Jesus, Dad. You scared the life out of me.”

Averagely tall, neither broad-shouldered nor slight. A goatee beard hiding the absence of a chin. Alistair Quinn buries manicured hands deep into his pockets, takes three steps into my office, and my spine pulls as taut as a bow string.

“Blair, what are you still doing here? Your mother said you had dinner plans with Harrison.”

“I do,” I subtly straighten my dress, still unfastened to the small of my back. “I was just closing out the Marcelo account and setting up the Broad Street Auction House portfolio, sir.”

Hard blue eyes flicker to my cleared desktop, the red satin pumps dangling from my fingers, and I pray we can skip the berating, just this once.

“I think Devens should take on the Broad Street client, seeing as you might not be…available much longer. I don’t need this client doubting our ability to commit to the account.”

His gaze moves again. To my left hand and the white gold band that’s circled my finger since college. A promise of a life with Harrison Vanderwilt, a promise of two prominent families united, and a reminder of the temporary nature of my career. Even so,

“I’d like to keep the account, sir. I assure you that when the time comes, I can seamlessly transition to Devens’ care. The client won’t be inconvenienced.”

“That had better be the case, Blair. Now get on your way. You know better than to keep a man waiting.”

The reprimand doesn’t have time to sting as a notification sounds with the Uber Black’s arrival. I step an exaggerated circle around my father and race for the elevator, a disapproving hiss trailing the expanse of my naked back.

The descent is just long enough to exchange my no-name Mary Janes for Manolo’s and near dislocate a shoulder securing my dress. The click of pinching heels echoes through the deserted lobby as I race to my waiting ride, gleaming glossy black beyond the heavy revolving doors of Quinn Asset Management. Waving goodnight to Stan, the after-hours security guard, and confirming his heavily pregnant wife is still just that, I duck into the car and repeat the driver’s destination. The Green Door. Harrison’s favorite uptown restaurant. French-inspired modern cuisine with prices to match. The sort of place that hires aspiring models for waitstaff and has a Maître D’ that’s sleight of hand would rival David Copperfield’s.

Rolling up to a set of lights, I quickly release my strawberry blonde hair from its nine to five up-do, hoping the slightly retained curl will excuse my lack of contouring. Red flashes green, and the driver glides down the avenue; illuminated office buildings, gaudy billboards, and budding nightlife stream through my window. I’m grateful for the dark tint obscuring the hype. As the car turns onto the cobbled drive of the restaurant’s street, my mother’s face fills my vision. Mary Anne is video calling….

I take a steadying breath and hope my voice holds at least some of the warmth a daughter should feel for her mother.

“Hi, mom.”

“Blair, your father said you’re running late for Harrison,”

My mother sits perfectly still, her gaze focused elsewhere, and I know without asking that she’s seated at her vanity. A well-practiced hand traces a delicate streak of liner across unnaturally pouty lips, then she turns to face me. Her striking blue eyes squint in a way I know is a frown, even if her forehead remains motionless.

“Show me the dress.”

I don’t bother arguing, angling the camera to my mid-thigh crimson cashmere, off-shoulder, and carving a deeper V across my chest than I would like, but the neckline would seem conservative to Mary Anne Quinn.

“Harrison asked for red,” I say, hoping it will give my mother pause from judgment. I’m wrong, as usual.

“You should have worn the satin Valentino. A spaghetti strap is much more forgiving for a barely-there bust.”

The barb lands, and I cringe. The image of Harrison’s face as I unboxed the dress last summer is not one I’ll soon forget. Scarlet with an offensively high thigh split and gapping neckline, a closer reference to lingerie and an assault on the senses.

“Not tonight, Mom.”

“Well, tell me you at least changed your shoes. Your father said you left in those awful cloggy things.”

She turns back to the mirror, pinning a sleek, white blonde lock behind her ear, and as always, I swallow the need to defend my choice of footwear or feel the ever-present ache at my lack of inherited characteristics.

“I have the satin Manolo’s. And I’ve taken on the Broad Street Auction House account.”

I don’t know why I say it, and I’m hardly shocked when she replies with,

“That’s nice, Blair. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Kiss Harrison for me.”

My mother doesn’t spare me a look as she disconnects the call, and the car eases to a seamless stop in front of the restaurant. I thank the driver and step onto the cobblestoned path. My earlier hast dissolves into an unhurried amble as I make for the green carpeted doorway, twisting the ring on my finger as if I could loosen its hold, just enough to take a full breath.