Chapter 1

Brianna

I step out of the glass doors of McDaniels Industries, the afternoon sun hitting my face with a warm welcome. The fifty-story skyscraper behind me houses some of the most ambitious financial minds in New York, including mine—at least for the hours between nine and five.

"That was some presentation you gave to the Harrington group." Aliyah Franklin falls into step beside me, her designer heels clicking rhythmically against the pavement. "You had Nathan practically salivating when you broke down those fourth-quarter projections."

"Thanks." I can't help the smile that spreads across my face. "I spent all weekend preparing those slides. Almost didn't get to sleep last night."

"Well, it paid off. I heard Nathan talking about putting you on the Singapore account." Aliyah adjusts her Hermès bag on her shoulder, somehow making the movement look graceful.

"Seriously?" My heart skips. The Singapore account would mean a substantial bonus, maybe even that promotion I've been eyeing.

"Don't act so surprised. You're the best analyst we have." She pulls out her phone as it buzzes. "Sorry, it's the nanny. Apparently, Zoe decided to give herself a haircut using her art scissors."

I laugh. "How does she manage three five-year-olds and still have any hair left herself?"

"That's what I pay her the big bucks for." Aliyah types rapidly into her phone, her manicured nails a blur on the screen. "Speaking of which, Evan wants to know if you'd like to come over for dinner this weekend? He's grilling, and the girls have been asking about you. They seemed to really like you."

"I'd love to." I navigate around a businessman who's stopped abruptly to take a call. "How do you do it all, Aliyah? Three kids, marriage to a billionaire, and still crushing it at work?"

Aliyah looks up from her phone, a genuine smile softening her features. "Don't let the Instagram posts fool you. Half the time I'm running on dry shampoo and three hours of sleep. Last week, I showed up to a board meeting with a Cheerio stuck to my blazer."

"Still, you make it look easy."

"Nothing about it is easy. But it's worth it." She glances at her watch. "I've gotta run—school pickup. Evan's in Berlin until tomorrow."

We say our goodbyes at the corner where Fifth Avenue splits, and I continue alone through the crowded Manhattan streets. The late afternoon crowd buzzes around me, a mix of tourists taking photos and locals hurrying home.

I pause at the window of Galerie Lumière, a small French art gallery that changes its featured artist monthly. This time, they're showcasing contemporary oil paintings—vivid landscapes that seem to breathe with emotion. I linger, longer than I should, imagining the freedom of expression the artist must have felt, the release of creating something that exists purely for beauty's sake.

Three blocks down, I slow my pace as I pass Cornerstone Books, its window display featuring new releases alongside leather-bound classics. My fingers itch to run along their spines, to inhale that distinct paper-and-ink scent that always makes me feel at home.

I check my watch—still an hour before I need to be home. Giving in to temptation, I push open the door, the little bell announcing my arrival.

"Brianna! Haven't seen you in almost two weeks." Marcus, the owner, looks up from his inventory spreadsheet. "I was beginning to think you'd abandoned us for one of those soulless chain stores."

"Never." I breathe in deeply, letting the familiar scent wash over me. "Just busy with work."

"Well, your hold came in." He reaches under the counter and pulls out Zadie Smith's latest novel. "And I put aside that first edition of Baldwin we talked about. Just came in yesterday."

My heart leaps with excitement that I never feel when closing million-dollar deals. Here, surrounded by stories and ideas, I feel a completeness that the gleaming offices of McDaniels Industries could never provide.

As I browse through the shelves, I imagine what it would be like to work in a place like this—or better yet, to write my own stories. The half-finished manuscript sitting in my laptop, the one I peck at during late nights when sleep evades me, flashes through my mind. In my daydreams, I see my name on book spines, hear discussions of my characters in places like this.

The financial security of my current job keeps these dreams firmly in the "someday" category. Yet standing here, with the weight of a book in my hands, that "someday" feels tantalizingly close.

I think of the Singapore account, the promotion it could lead to. More money, more prestige—and less time for passion projects. Still, a girl can dream.

I run my fingertips over the embossed cover of the Baldwin first edition, feeling the slight texture beneath my skin. A hundred and fifty dollars isn't cheap, but it would be a perfect addition to my growing collection. I don't hesitate to hand Marcus my credit card.

"You know, I set that aside specifically for you." Marcus leans across the counter, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. "Had three other customers ask about it."

"Why me?" I tuck a curl behind my ear.

"Because you don't just buy books—you breathe them." He slides the wrapped package toward me. "That manuscript you mentioned last time... how's it coming along?"

My smile falters. "It's... there. Waiting for me to have time."

"Time has a funny way of never showing up unless you drag it kicking and screaming into your schedule."

Walking out of Cornerstone Books with my purchases tucked safely in my bag, I can't shake Marcus's words. For the past three years, I've been saying I'll work on my novel "when I have time." Yet somehow, between client meetings and financial projections, that mythical free time never materializes.

The Singapore account would mean a substantial raise, maybe even six figures more annually. Financial security isn't something I take lightly—not after watching my parents struggle through layoffs and tight budgets. The memory of our electricity being shut off my senior year of high school still makes my stomach clench.

But at what cost does that security come?

A woman brushes past me, nearly knocking my bag from my shoulder, but I barely notice. My mind is too busy calculating the hours I spend each week poring over spreadsheets versus the minutes I steal to write. The equation doesn't balance. It never has.

I pause at the corner of Fifth and 23rd, waiting for the light to change. Crowds surge around me, a sea of professionals in their corporate armor—men and women who look just like me, carrying the same determined expression, the same expensive bags, the same hidden dreams perhaps.

The digital display counts down: 5...4...3...

What would happen if I allocated even just five hours a week to writing? Or spent one Saturday a month at that watercolor class I've had bookmarked for two years?

The light changes, and I move forward with the crowd, but my thoughts remain fixed. The bustling sounds of Manhattan—car horns, snippets of conversation, street performers' music—fade into white noise as my mind wanders down paths not taken.

I imagine what it would feel like to see my name printed on a book cover. To stand in a gallery looking at my paintings. To create something that exists because I brought it into being, not because a client needed quarterly projections or investment strategies.

My phone buzzes, and I pull it out to see an email from Nathan—"RE: Singapore Account." My thumb hovers over it, but I slide the phone back into my pocket. Whatever it says can wait until I'm home.

The rest of my walk passes in a blur of daydreams and calculations. What if I scaled back at McDaniels? Requested a four-day workweek? The pay cut would sting, but my savings could absorb it. I could use that extra day to write, to paint, to breathe.

By the time I reach my building, resolve has hardened in my chest. Something has to change. I've spent years building a life that looks impressive on paper but leaves me empty in the spaces between breaths.

In the elevator, I pull out my phone and open my calendar. I block off every Sunday afternoon for the next month—"Writing Time: DO NOT RESCHEDULE." Then I open the browser and register for that watercolor class I've been eyeing, clicking "confirm payment" before I can second-guess myself.

It's not a dramatic overhaul. I'm not quitting my job tomorrow to become a starving artist. But it's a start—a small rebellion against the tyranny of "someday" and "when I have time."

As the elevator doors slide open on my floor, I feel lighter than I have in months. The path forward isn't clear, but at least now I'm acknowledging there's more than one route to take.