Her mask cracked. Pure terror. Michael frowned, missing the subtext but sensing the threat. “You’re psychotic, Sarah. Let’s go, Mom.”

As they hurried off, my mother gave me a proud glint. “Let them walk into their own trap.”

Seventy-two hours later I stood on the balcony of a high-rise overlooking the Coronado Bridge, the Pacific breeze pulling the last of Chicago out of my hair.

I threw myself into the coastal resort project with a ferocity that surprised even me, turning grief into ambition.

It was during those late-night sessions that I met James.

James was the VP of the West Coast division — quiet confidence, sharp mind, a real capacity for empathy. He didn’t pry. He seemed to understand that the pace I worked at was a shield.