Page 3 of Red, White, and You

But this is the life I chose, and I stand by that.

Most days.

Chris clears her throat and I meet her gaze.

She raises her eyebrows.

I shake my head.I’m not going.

There’s just no way.

I won’t enjoy myself.

Corporate America isn’t just a blanket term for the working business class—it’s an all-consuming machine, a lifestyle that sucks you in, devours and controls you, and if you’re not careful, that same machine will chew you up and spit you out. So I’ve had to be diligent. Serious. Meticulous. I’ve had to work twice as hard and twice as long as the men in my field to prevent this corporate world from bringing me to my knees. Now it bows tome, not the other way around.

While my friends were having fun, then having babies, I was working my way up the corporate ladder, and now…

My shoulders rise and fall on a heavy sigh.

Well,now, I’m forty-three years old with no social life, no spouse, and no friends. I left those things behind because our life plans—and our schedules—just didn’t line up. As I built my firm, it became more and more difficult to keep in touch with people outside of colleagues and clients.

Even my marriage to Brady West was over before our five-year anniversary.

Which brings me to the second burning question, and the one that has me reaching for the duffel bag.

If Brady has anything to do with this, I owe it to myself to go.

I sacrificed friendship and love for this corner office that overlooks Manhattan through floor-to-ceiling glass windows, and a custom walk-in closet that takes up a third of my penthouse and houses Jimmy, Christian, and Valentino—the only men who never question me about my long hours ormake me feel guilty about wanting a career over, well, literally everything else.

Something tightens in my chest.

Is that longing… or dread?

It’s ridiculous that even a small part of mewantsto go to a summer camp for adults. What kind of people will be there? Surely not serious people with careers and aspirations. Who has the time?

“It’s paid for.”

I snort. As if money is the issue here.

“Someone really wants you to do this, Brielle.”

“Someone,” I murmur. “But who?” The niggling at the back of my mind tells me exactlywho.

Chris shrugs. “Beats me. A client?”

I cock an eyebrow.

“A secret admirer?”

I scoff. Not likely.

“A rival firm?” Her lips twitch. “Sweet revenge after losing a case against you.”

The envelope arrived a week ago and I’ve considered every option, from my sister to former clients, to a guy I dated briefly a few years ago. But none of the potential senders fit.

None, save for one.

The only one who could make me consider this for even a hiccup of time.

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