PART 1 — The Name on the Receipt

Patrick placed his ceramic coffee mug exactly over the center seam of the white marble island.

He stared at the dark liquid without drinking.

The clock on the wall oven glowed pale blue in the dim morning light.

I stood in the doorway and watched his shoulders tighten.

He wore a custom midnight-blue suit.

His leather briefcase rested on the nearest steel stool.

“Are we in breach of a morning schedule?” I asked.

My hands rested over my swollen belly.

The baby was quiet this early.

I was twenty-four, eighteen months married, and still trying to understand the rules of a house where a misplaced mug could produce a lecture.

Patrick tapped one finger against the marble.

“We need to optimize our morning bandwidth.

I have a heavy rotation of venture meetings.

The firm requires my full operational capacity.”

He swiped through messages on his silver tablet.

I went to the refrigerator for water.

A notification crossed his screen: Oakwood Leasing Office.