The morning rush of the subway carried Caitlin away from the night before like a current pulling debris out to sea.

The press of anonymous bodies was a strange comfort.

The train spat her out in Midtown Manhattan. She walked the final block to her design firm, a small, struggling company housed in a nondescript office building. After clocking in, she sank into her cubicle chair and powered on her computer.

Her department manager, Walter Price, clapped his hands loudly to get everyone's attention. "Alright, people, listen up! We're bidding for the new Zenith Corporation development project. This is the big one."

He strode over to Caitlin's desk and dropped a thick binder with a heavy thud. The cover read: Project Proposal: Zenith Tower.

"Knight," he barked, not even bothering to look at her. "Get this over to Zenith headquarters. Now."

Caitlin sighed. It was a glorified messenger job—the kind of task handed to the junior designer when no one else wanted to deal with traffic and receptionists. But she couldn't refuse. Not with her mother's bills piling up and her credit card hovering near its limit. She packed the binder into her bag and left the office.

On the street, she hailed a yellow cab and gave the driver the address for the Zenith Tower.

The taxi pulled up in front of a gleaming skyscraper that pierced the clouds. It was a monument of glass and steel, exuding power. After paying the driver, she pushed through the revolving glass doors into a lobby that was vast, white, and cold.

She explained her purpose to the receptionist, who directed her to wait on a low leather sofa in the visitor's area. Caitlin sat, nervously flipping through the proposal, checking for any mistakes.

A nervous flutter stirred in her chest. She had told herself that Isaac Harrell was just a coincidence—a common name, a different man. But as she sat in the shadow of this towering glass monolith, the hope that she had been wrong began to feel fragile and thin.

A soft ding announced the arrival of a private elevator. The doors slid open, and a group of executives in expensive suits emerged, all of them clustered around one man.

Caitlin looked up.

Her breath caught in her throat. The man at the center of the storm, the one everyone was deferring to, was Isaac.

He wore a deep blue, double-breasted suit, his expression impassive as he listened to a subordinate's report. He looked like he owned the building. Maybe he did.

An involuntary instinct made her stand up, the heavy binder nearly slipping from her grasp.

His gaze swept across the lobby, a king surveying his domain. For a split second, it landed on her. There was no recognition. No flicker of warmth. Nothing. His eyes, the same gray eyes that had looked at her with such intensity just hours before, were now as cold and hard as the marble floor.

He looked right through her, as if she were a piece of furniture—or worse, a mistake he had already decided to forget. He continued walking, his entourage trailing in his wake as they swept out the front doors.

Caitlin sank back onto the sofa. A cold, tight fist squeezed her heart. The chasm between his world and hers had never felt so vast, so brutally real.

Caitlin forced her legs to move, walking on autopilot back to the reception desk. Her hands felt numb as she placed the project proposal on the polished marble counter.

"I'm here to drop this off for Mr. Harrell's office," she said, her voice sounding distant to her own ears.

The receptionist picked up her phone, murmured a few words, and listened. A moment later, she hung up and pushed the binder back toward Caitlin.

"I'm sorry," the woman said, her professional smile not quite reaching her eyes. "Mr. Harrell's office has indicated that your firm does not meet the preliminary qualifications. They won't be accepting the proposal."

The words hit her like a physical blow. A hot, prickling shame washed over her face. It felt as if he had slapped her, right here in this cathedral of corporate power. She numbly stuffed the binder back into her tote bag, turned, and walked quickly out of the Zenith Tower.

The bustling Manhattan sidewalk felt alien, the sounds of the city muffled. Her phone began to vibrate violently in her bag.

She pulled it out. The screen displayed a number she knew all too well: Long Island Private Care Sanitarium.

Her thumb trembled as she answered. "Hello?"

"Ms. Knight?" It was the head nurse, her voice strained with urgency. "It's your mother. Sharon. She had an episode. A new orderly was assisting with her medication, and she became agitated. She's broken a vital signs monitor and an infusion pump."

A wave of dizziness washed over Caitlin. "I... I'm so sorry. Is she okay?"

"She's been sedated. But you need to come handle the damages."

"I'll be right there," Caitlin promised, her voice hollow.

She stumbled toward the subway, her mind a chaotic blur. The ride on the Long Island Rail Road was a purgatory of screeching wheels and fleeting landscapes. She stared out the window, not seeing the scenery, a single, hot tear finally escaping and tracing a cold path down her cheek.

From the station in Long Island, an Uber took her the rest of the way to the serene, manicured grounds of the sanitarium. It looked more like a country club than a medical facility.

She found her mother, Sharon, sitting in a wheelchair in the administrative office, her face a stony mask of defiance. Caitlin knelt by her side, murmuring a few soothing words before turning to face the nurse manager.

The nurse slid a long, itemized bill across the desk.

Caitlin's eyes scanned the list of damaged equipment. The final number at the bottom made the air leave her lungs in a painful rush. It was more than she made in three months.

With a shaking hand, she pulled out her credit card—the one that was already nearly maxed out. She handed it to the finance clerk. The machine beeped, the transaction approved. Just like that, next month's rent was gone.

After settling her mother back in her room, Caitlin began the long journey back to Manhattan. By the time she pushed open the door to her office, the sky was completely dark. Only a few dedicated colleagues remained, their faces illuminated by the glow of their monitors.

The door to Walter Price's office flew open. He stormed out, waving a piece of paper—a fax from Zenith's legal department, formally declining their bid.

"Knight!" he roared, his voice echoing in the quiet office. He jabbed a finger in her direction. "You couldn't even deliver a simple proposal? You made us look like amateurs! We lost the Zenith contract because of you!"

Caitlin stood frozen by her desk, her head bowed, as his spittle-flecked tirade washed over her. She clenched her fists so tightly her nails dug into her palms, the sharp sting grounding her, helping her fight back the tears that burned behind her eyes.

Walter finally ran out of steam, slamming his office door with a resounding bang.

A moment later, her colleague Nora Foster rolled her chair over, a silent offering of a tissue in her outstretched hand.

Caitlin took it, her lips forming a silent "thank you." She collapsed into her chair, the exhaustion of the day settling on her like a physical weight. She stared at the mountain of design work on her computer screen, and for the first time in her life, felt a suffocating sense of utter, complete despair.