Daphne’s POV

Three years later…

The screen of my phone lights up in the quiet of the night, illuminating my dishevelled desk in one of the rooms at my parents’ old ranch house. The same room I grew up in.

I reach for the phone, hitting the message icon.

The market is volatile tonight. Do you understand why the liquidity crunch spreads faster than contagion?

A small smile plays on my lips as I type back.

It should be about investors pulling out when trust breaks down, and then panic spreads.

Although I don't know who he is, and I have never met him before, I can imagine him smiling at my response.

Or not.

This is what spending three years in my parents’ house does to me. I begin to imagine things that are practically impossible.

He could be married, or maybe even old enough to give birth to me. He doesn't leave personal information, and when I start to pry, he just freezes.

His message comes in.

Good.

The first time he reached out to me, I found everything really strange. I was in a bad place after being forced to sign the divorce papers and left with nothing. The stranger offered to teach me about the stock market and private equity.

Okay. So maybe offer isn’t the right word. More like he forced it on me, leaving me with no choice.

But I am glad he did it.

His messages are always precise, never lingering longer than he wants to. Still, I learned to read between the lines, noting that every correction wasn't just a lesson. He was teaching me control, strategy, and survival.

Skills I will need if I plan on getting back out there.

The typing beads appear again, and his message comes in under a few seconds.

Daphne, tell me again, what’s the margin call threshold for a leveraged buyout in a volatile market?

That’s easy.

"Thirty-five percent,” I answered. But most times, that figure is highly dependent on the spikes.

You’re sharper than you let on.

I smile to myself. Don’t flatter me.

The typing beads take longer this time, appearing and disappearing until it begins to feel like a game, like he is stopping himself from saying what he really wants to.

My eyes find the book I have been studying on private equity, sent to me by my strange tutor. But the second I hear the familiar ping, my eyes return to my phone.

A little too eager.

Flattery doesn’t matter when you can’t back it up where it matters.

My fingers hover above the typing pad, about to launch into a tale of how I used to be a member of the board of one of the biggest firms in Manhattan. But just then, I got distracted by the view from the window.

The silence of the ranch stretches out before me, the endless lands glowing under the stars. My parents are on the other side of the ranch. Things might not be going so well, but at least, they have each other.

I wish I could help them, rather than dump my own problems on their already sagging weight. But Zayn’s marriage to me never included sending my parents any money. I should have been smarter about it. I should have found a way.

I guess I was just so comfortable in the illusion that I had all the time in the world.

They look at me like a wounded calf about to break at any time. Maybe I am. These days, I feel like I am getting lost in nothing.

The only thing keeping me tethered is a voice I have never heard, a mentor who pushes me to be better, but ensures he keeps his distance.

It can get really frustrating sometimes.

You’re distracted.

Shit! He must have been waiting for a response.

I typed an apology first, but then, I hit the delete button. My pulse races as I send something else.

Maybe.

Good. Distraction isn’t always a bad thing, and admitting it keeps you on edge. That’s where profit can be found.

I barely have time to think about it when a crash from the next room echoes around the walls, making me jump. He bounced straight for my doorway in a second, his curly hair making him look so adorable.

“Mummy!” his tiny voice, bound to wake his grandparents, traveled through the walls. He stops in my doorway, holding up a broken toy airplane, his eyes wide with excitement.

“Oh no!” I sighed, pushing back from the desk. “Christian, what did I say about flying these inside?”

His innocent eyes stared back at me. “I want to fly. And you don’t let me go outside in the night.”

“Because it’s late.”

“So I can fly inside!” He murmurs exasperatedly, as if I make no sense.

Laughing softly, I squat till I am almost at his level, kissing the tip of his messy hair. My phone beeps again, and I ruffle his hair before moving again.

My son thinks flying in the house is cool.

You should let him.

Would you let him if he were your son?

I know my question might not be appropriate, but I am dying to know something about him.

You’re playing a dangerous game, Daphne.

His messages have a way of weaving through finance and intimacy at the same time. He is never direct with it, never crosses the lines, but sometimes, I just want to tip him over to the other side.

Does that make me a bad person?

Maybe I like danger.

You should be careful. The market isn’t the only thing that can leave you bankrupt, Daphne. And I mean it in ways that go beyond finance.

I stared at the words for a long time before hitting a response.

Maybe getting bankrupt isn’t such a bad idea.

But his reply never comes in. It has become a pattern, the stranger abruptly disappearing when things like this happen, and then, he crashes back in, acting like the last conversation doesn’t exist.

Days pass in silence, and then, after a week, at the same time, my phone buzzes again.

I have a proposition.

What is it? My pulse races underneath my skin.

Come work for me in Manhattan. I need you here.

When?

As soon as possible.

There is something about the way the words come in that makes my heart skip a bit.