Chapter 1

Claire

I weave through the crowded corridor of Frost Tech, balancing a steaming coffee in one hand and my laptop bag in the other. The morning bustle surrounds me—engineers with bedheads hunched over tablets, marketing associates gesturing wildly about the latest campaign. Normally, their energy would infuse me with enthusiasm, but today a weight anchors my steps.

"Morning, Claire. Big day, huh?" Ryan from accounting gives me a thumbs up as I pass.

"The biggest. No pressure or anything." I flash a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes and continue toward my office.

The glass door bears my name in sleek, minimalist lettering: Claire Bradley, Director of Product Development. I still feel a small thrill seeing it, even after all these months. When I push inside, the crisp air-conditioning hits my face, grounding me in the present moment.

My office speaks volumes about who I've become—meticulously organized, not a paper out of place. The award for Innovation in Tech that we won last quarter gleams from its place on my credenza. Evidence of my life after Alex. After everything.

I set my coffee down, power up my computer, and bring up the presentation I've been refining for weeks. Each slide represents countless hours of work, sleepless nights, and the collective brilliance of my team. Our app—designed to revolutionize how small businesses connect with potential investors—is my baby. My redemption.

"Knock knock."

I look up to find Mia, my assistant, leaning against the doorframe.

"They've started gathering in the conference room. Mr. Frost just arrived, too."

My stomach tightens. "Thanks. I'll be there in five."

When she leaves, I stand and smooth down my blazer, checking my reflection in the small mirror on my wall. Professional. Polished. Prepared. The mantra I've lived by since college. Since him.

The files transfer to my tablet, and I take one deep breath. Time to shine.

The conference room falls silent as I walk in. Ten pairs of eyes follow me to the front of the room where I connect my device to the projector.

"Good morning, everyone." My voice projects confidence I don't entirely feel. "Today I'm excited to share where we stand with Project Catalyst."

Mason Frost gives me an encouraging nod. The pressure of securing this next round of funding rests squarely on my shoulders.

The first slide appears, our sleek logo transitioning into market analysis graphs that tell our story better than words could.

"As you can see, the gap in the market is significant. Small businesses struggle to find legitimate investors, while investors waste time filtering through unviable ventures. Our platform changes that dynamic completely."

I click through to the interface demonstration, watching their faces as the elegant design unfolds before them. Two years of work distilled into a five-minute presentation.

"The algorithm processes over fifty data points to create matches with a ninety-three percent success rate in our beta testing."

One of the board members leans forward. "What about security concerns? These are sensitive financial negotiations we're talking about."

I've anticipated this question. "Excellent point. If you'll turn to page four in your packets, you'll see our triple-layer encryption protocol. We've partnered with Sentinel Systems for additional security architecture."

The questions fire at me from all directions. I field each one with precision, drawing on market research, user testing feedback, projected financials. This is where I excel—where I've channeled all my energy since graduation. Since choosing career over a heart that was already breaking.

Halfway through, we take a brief recess. While everyone refills their coffee cups, I stand by the windows overlooking downtown Hartford. The glass reflects my image back at me—professional attire, confident posture—but also reveals what I try to hide: circles under my eyes, a certain tightness around my mouth.

Last night was particularly rough. The business section of the Tribune ran a feature on the Harrington Tech expansion. Alexander Harrington Returns to Revolutionize Hartford's Tech Scene.

Three years in Europe, building their international division, and now he's back. Just ten blocks away, if the article's mention of their new headquarters is correct.

I press my fingertips against the cool glass, willing away the memory of his smile, the way his hand felt against mine, the hurt in his eyes that final day.

"Claire? We're ready to continue." Mr. Frost's voice pulls me back.

"Of course." I straighten my shoulders and turn from my reflection, pushing Alex from my mind as I've done countless times before.

The slides advance. The questions continue. I am Director Claire Bradley, not the heartbroken college senior who cried herself to sleep. This meeting, this company, this is my reality now.

And I won't let ghosts from the past—no matter how vividly blue their eyes or how recently they've returned to town—distract me from what I've worked so hard to build.

The presentation ends with a round of applause, Mason Frost's being the loudest as he stands.

"Impressive as always, Claire." He clasps his hands together. "I think we all agree Project Catalyst is exactly what Frost Tech needs to solidify our market position. Alana had big hopes for this project, so I'm glad you've made her proud."

The board members nod in agreement, gathering their materials. My shoulders release tension immediately. Another professional triumph to add to my growing collection.

"Let's take everyone out for lunch to celebrate," Mason announces. "The new bistro on Maple Street has a private dining room."

I smile and nod, but as the room clears, I remain behind, disconnecting my tablet and gathering my notes. The quiet aftermath of success settles around me—a familiar feeling, like the silence after a concert when the applause has faded.

"Coming, Claire?" Mia asks from the doorway.

"I'll catch up. Just need to send a few emails first."

Alone in the conference room, I sink into a chair and stare at the blank projection screen. The victory feels hollow somehow, like biting into a beautifully decorated cake only to find it flavorless inside.

I pull out my phone and scroll mindlessly through my notifications. Three congratulatory texts from colleagues who couldn't attend the meeting. A reminder about my dental appointment next week. A LinkedIn alert about job anniversaries.

Nothing from anyone who really matters. No one waiting to hear how it went. No one to celebrate with beyond professional courtesies.

I tap open my photo gallery and scroll back—way back—past company events and business trips to a folder I've never deleted. Campus in autumn. Two coffee cups on a library table. A selfie with his arm around me, both of us laughing into the camera.

"Stupid," I whisper, closing the app quickly.

The building hums with activity around me—success, innovation, progress. Everything I thought I wanted. Everything I convinced myself would be enough.

But at night, my apartment is silent except for the occasional ping of work emails. My refrigerator contains precisely portioned meal prep containers. My bed holds only me, the other side remaining pristinely made.

I've created exactly the life I planned after graduation—after Alex. The perfect professional trajectory. Director by twenty-six. Industry recognition. Financial security.

So why does it feel like I've been holding my breath for four years?

"Get it together, Claire." I straighten my blazer and stand. "This is what winning looks like."

But is it? The question echoes as I walk back to my office. The award on my credenza catches the light. I pick it up, feeling its weight. Glass and metal, cold against my palm. I set it down beside the framed certificate from the Women in Technology summit where I was a keynote speaker last year.

Artifacts of achievement. Evidence of worth.

Yet I can still hear his voice from that day in the campus coffee shop: "There's more to life than climbing the corporate ladder, Claire."

I had scoffed then. "Easy for you to say when your name is already on the building."

The memory stings. We were both right and both wrong in ways our younger selves couldn't comprehend.

My phone buzzes—Mason texting the restaurant address.

I take a deep breath and straighten my spine. This emptiness is temporary. A momentary weakness. Nothing that can't be fixed with another successful product launch, another innovation, another rung climbed.

Opening my laptop, I pull up the marketing timeline for Project Catalyst. There's still so much to do before we go to market. If I start now, I can get ahead of schedule, exceed expectations again. Maybe develop some additional features. Refine the algorithm further.

Work has always been my refuge—clear goals, measurable outcomes, the satisfaction of problems solved through sheer determination and intellect. Unlike relationships, where the variables are too numerous, the emotions too complex to control.

I create a new project folder and begin organizing tasks into priority levels. My fingers fly across the keyboard, the familiar rhythm of productivity drowning out the echoes of emptiness. This is the medicine I know works—achievement as anesthetic.

If I can't have a complete life, I'll excel at the parts I can control. If my personal happiness feels diminished, I'll build professional satisfaction so towering it blocks out the shadows. If my heart remains cracked, I'll cover the damage with accolades and advancement.

The void inside me won't be filled this way—some distant, honest part of me knows this—but at least I won't have to look at its depths while I'm climbing.