Page 2 of The Valentine Agenda

After all, it was just another thing to manage, another detail to perfect. And James Park was very, very good at perfection.

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James's morning started with precision, like every other morning. He was checking his overnight emails when someone murmured "good morning" in the lobby. One of the building's many anonymous residents—that woman who was always tidying things.

He nodded vaguely without looking up from his phone, sidestepping around her as she adjusted a plant or straightened a picture frame or whatever it was she was doing.

The February air was crisp, carrying the promise of a productive day. That's what he needed—productivity. Numbers didn't complicate things with emotional discussions about babies in Chicago.

At the office, his coffee was waiting—black, no sugar. The elevator was held when he approached. These weren't perks; they were expectations, carefully cultivated over years of generous holiday tips and exacting standards.

"Morning, Mr. Park!" His assistant Angela was already at her desk, armed with a stack of folders and her usual efficiency. "The Sinclair portfolio is ready for review, and I've moved your 9AM to 10 to give you time to prepare for the board presentation."

"Perfect." He strode past her desk, then paused. "I need you to arrange for Vanessa's things to be packed and delivered to her. Use the premium service, the one that handles designer items properly."

Angela's perfectly maintained professional expression flickered for just a moment. "Of course. I'll take care of it right away." She followed him into his corner office, tablet at the ready. "Should I also update your RSVP for the corporate retreat next month? Remove her as your plus-one?"

"Yes." He settled behind his desk, the leather chair conforming to him like a second skin. "And pull the numbers on the Mitchell acquisition. I want to review them before the board meeting."

"Already on your desk, tabbed by quarter." Angela hesitated. "Are you... alright, Mr. Park? With everything?"

James looked up, genuinely puzzled. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"No reason." She shifted gears smoothly. "The Johnson deal closed overnight. Legal needs your signature on the final documents by noon."

"Finally." He was already reaching for the Sinclair portfolio. "Have them sent up. And get me Dan from Marketing—we need to discuss the press release."

"Of course." Angela paused at the door. "And your mother called. Twice. Something about dinner this weekend?"

"Tell her I'm swamped with the Johnson deal." The familiar rhythm of work was settling over him like a comfortable blanket. "Maybe next week."

"You've said that the last three weeks," Angela noted carefully.

"Then she should be used to it by now." He was already immersed in the portfolio, his universe narrowing to profit margins and market projections. "Hold all calls unless it's the board or Legal."

Alone in his office, James lost himself in the clean certainty of spreadsheets. Here, everything made sense. Numbers didn't demand attention or complain about being ignored. Success could be measured in concrete terms, not nebulous concepts like emotional availability.

By ten, he'd found three inefficiencies in the Sinclair portfolio, identified a promising angle for the Mitchell acquisition, and completely forgotten about his mother's calls. His shirt from last night was already at the cleaners, the stain being someone else's problem to solve.

The winter sun illuminated the buildings outside his window, all glass and steel and perfect angles. This was his world—ordered, controlled, successful. He'd earned this view, this office, this life. Everything else was just... details to be managed.

His phone buzzed: another message from his mother. The Mitchell acquisition wouldn't close itself, and anyway, family dinners were just another obligation to juggle, another box to check.

"Angela," he called out. "Get me the latest market analysis on Mitchell's subsidiaries. And see if you can push my lunch meeting to tomorrow. I want to finish this today."

"Already ordered lunch to your office," she replied. "And the analysis is in your email."

James nodded absently, already focused on his screen. This was better than dinner reservations and social obligations. Better than trying to remember sisters' babies or morning greetings to strangers. Here, in his office, everything made perfect sense.

The day stretched ahead of him, clean and uncomplicated, full of problems he knew exactly how to solve.

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"She's already dating someone else!"

James stared, appalled, at the image on his phone, the pristine screen of his iPhone reflecting the moody lighting of the Baron's Club. The post showed Vanessa at an event. She was laughing, champagne flute in hand, while some guy in a navy suit leaned in close.

"Let me see that." Mike plucked the phone from his hand, whistling low. "Damn. That's Trevor Martinez. He's on the board at First National." He slid the phone back across the marble bar top. "Didn't waste any time, did she?"

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