Page 1 of The Valentine Agenda

CHAPTER ONE

James

James Park was more concerned about the wine stain on his sleeve than the fact that his girlfriend was breaking up with him.

"Are you even listening to me?" Vanessa's voice cut through his mental calculation of whether his dry cleaner could salvage the shirt. She'd knocked over her Cabernet when she dropped her bombshell. Now his $150 Tom Ford shirt was probably ruined.

"Of course I'm listening." He dabbed at the stain with his napkin, wondering if club soda would help or make it worse. "You're saying you need space."

"No, James." Vanessa set down her fork, her barely touched winter salad sitting between them like a quiet accusation. "I'm not asking for space. I'm telling you we're done."

Around them, Le Petit Jardin hummed with the precise frequency of money and good breeding. James had secured their usual table—the one by the window where everyone could see them, but far enough from the kitchen to maintain the illusion that their food appeared by magic.

It was Thursday, which meant they should be discussing weekend plans. Instead, Vanessa was ruining their carefully choreographed routine with inconvenient emotions.

"Is this about the charity gala?" he asked, finally looking up. "Because I already told the board I'd sponsor a table—"

"It's about the fact that you just spent two minutes obsessing over your shirt while I told you I've been miserable for months."

James frowned. "I wasn't obsessing. This shirt is—"

"Tom Ford, I know." Vanessa's laugh was brittle. "Just like your watch is Patek Philippe, your shoes are Ferragamo, and your apartment looks exactly like the cover of Architectural Digest. Everything in your life is perfectly curated, James. Including me."

"That's not fair."

"No?" She leaned forward, her perfectly manicured nails drumming against her water glass. "What did I do last weekend?"

"You had that PR event for—"

"I was in Chicago visiting my sister. She just had a baby." Vanessa's eyes were bright with something that might have been tears, if James had ever seen her cry. "I told you three times. But you were too busy checking the stock market or your email or whatever was more important on your phone."

James felt the first stirring of real discomfort. He remembered her mentioning Chicago, vaguely. He might haveeven nodded. But he'd been finalizing the Johnson deal, and anyway, wasn't it enough that he'd made their dinner reservations? That he remembered her shellfish allergy and always ordered wine she liked?

"We can work on communication," he offered, reaching for solutions like he would in a business meeting. "I can set reminders, make more time—"

"You don't get it." Vanessa sat back, something like pity crossing her perfect features. "I don't want you to schedule me into your life like another appointment. I want someone who actually wants to be part of my life. Someone who asks about my sister's baby because he cares, not because his calendar told him to."

"I care," James protested, but the words sounded hollow even to him. Did he care? He cared that they looked good together, that she understood the rules of their world, that she never embarrassed him at corporate functions. But her sister's baby? The thought had never crossed his mind.

"No, you don't." Vanessa's voice was gentle now, which somehow made it worse. "And that's okay. You care about success, about appearances, about winning. I used to think that was enough. That if I waited, if I played my part perfectly, you'd eventually see me as more than an accessory to your perfect life."

"You're not an accessory," James said automatically, but he was already thinking about how this would affect his image at work. Would people notice if he attended the Sinclair wedding alone? Should he ask his sister to be his plus-one for the next corporate retreat?

"And that right there?" Vanessa stood, gathering her purse with elegant efficiency. "That's why I'm leaving. Because you're sitting there wondering how this affects your social calendar, aren't you? Not how it affects me, or you, or us. Because there never really was an us, James. Just you, and your perfect life, and all the props you collected to furnish it."

She placed her napkin on the table with devastating precision. "I already paid for my half of dinner. Wouldn't want you thinking I was taking advantage."

James watched her walk away, weaving gracefully between tables. He should feel something, he thought. Pain, loss, regret—any of the emotions people were supposed to feel when relationships ended.

Instead, he felt irritation that she'd caused a scene (however quietly), annoyance about his shirt, and a nagging concern about who he'd take to the corporate retreat.

The maître d' appeared at his elbow. "Would sir like to see the dessert menu?"

James glanced at his watch—a perfect Swiss movement that never lost a second. "No. Just the check." He paused. "And could you recommend a good dry cleaner? One that handles delicate fabrics?"

As he waited for his credit card to return, James made a mental note to have his assistant arrange for Vanessa's things from his apartment to be sent to her. Clean break, no mess, no drama. That's how these things should be handled.

He was already scheduling tomorrow in his head, mentally rearranging his life to accommodate this minor inconvenience.

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