Victoria caught me at the door handing over the leather portfolio. Her expression was all business. No trace of the personal history between us. Review the financial projections and contingency strategies in detail. We fly out Thursday at 8:00 a.m. I don’t tolerate delays or incomplete preparation. She stroed off without another word, leaving me standing there with the portfolio feeling heavier than it should. Back at my desk, I flipped through the pages, my mind racing in a dozen directions.
Why me? The uncomfortable truth was that our family connection made this deeply complicated. Colleagues would assume favoritism. They’d whisper that I was riding on dad’s legacy, on Victoria’s guilt or obligation. Part of me swelled with pride. This could be my break, my chance to prove I belonged here on my own merit. But doubt crept in like fog rolling off Elliot Bay. What if Marcus was right? What if I wasn’t ready? What if I screwed up and confirmed every suspicion that I didn’t deserve to be here?
That afternoon, blurred into a frenzy of preparation. I double-cheed every projection, rehearsed potential questions from James Hong’s team, and ran through mock scenarios until my eyes burned. By evening, I was exhausted, but wired on coffee and adrenaline. Dinner was a sad desk sandwich while I refined my presentation notes. Lying in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, sleep evaded me completely. My thoughts looped endlessly. The stairs in the meeting, Marcus’ condescension, Victoria’s unwavering confidence in me, or was it obligation to Dad’s memory?
What if this trip was a test I wasn’t prepared for? Success could change everything, prove I belonged in this world on my own terms. Failure might confirm every insecurity I’d buried since childhood. Eventually, I drifted into restless sleep, my suitcase already packed by the door, ready for whatever came next. Little did I know, the real challenge wouldn’t be the $2.3 billion deal. It would be 5 days trapped with Victoria, forcing us to confront everything we’d spent years carefully avoiding.
Thursday morning arrived with typical Seattle gloom, heavy clouds, threatening rain. I met Victoria at the airport at 7:00 a.m. Both of us carrying efficient carry-on luggage and laptops. She was already on her phone, firing off emails, barely acknowledging my arrival beyond a curtain nod. We moved through security and silence, the awkwardness of our situation hanging between us like static electricity. The flight was supposed to be straightforward. A quick 2-hour hop down the coast to San Francisco, landing midm morning with plenty of time to check into our hotel and prep for Friday’s meeting.
But nothing about that day went according to plan. As we sat at the gate, the first delay announcement crackled over the speakers. Ladies and gentlemen, due to heavy fog in the San Francisco Bay area, our departure has been delayed by approximately 90 minutes. Victoria barely reacted, just opened her laptop and continued working. I pulled out my tablet, reviewing the meridian materials for what felt like the hundth time, but my concentration was shot. The tension of the past two days.
The whispers at the office, the weight of expectations, the complicated history between us pressed down on me. The delays kept coming. 30 minutes became 2 hours, then four. The fog in San Francisco was apparently unprecedented, grounding everything. The gate area filled with frustrated travelers, business types pacing with phones pressed to their ears, families trying to entertain restless children. Victoria made several calls, her voice low and authoritative as she rescheduled logistics with James Hongs team, pushing our preliminary meeting to Friday afternoon.
“Coffee?” I offered, standing up to stretch my legs, she glanced up, her expression softening almost imperceptibly. black. Thank you. I returned with two overpriced airport coffees, and we sipped in silence. It was the most normal interaction we’d had in months, maybe years. No business discussion, no family history, just two tired people stuck in an airport. We finally boarded around 2:00 p.m., 6 hours behind schedule. The flight itself was smooth, but by the time we landed at San Francisco airport, it was after 400 p.m.
and the fog still clung to the city like a shroud. The airport was chaos. Delayed flights, rerouted passengers, every hotel shuttle packed beyond capacity. Victoria was already on her phone as we collected our bags, scrolling through booking apps with increasing frustration. The tech conference, she muttered. Everything’s completely booked. I pulled up my own search. Hotel after hotel showed the same message and no availability. The few places with rooms were charging $800 plus per night for basic accommodations, clearly price gouging the desperate.
Try the harbor in near the airport, I suggested, remembering it from a previous trip. It’s not fancy, but it’s usually reliable. Victoria called and I watched her expression shift from hope to resignation. She put the phone on speaker. Yes, ma’am. We have one room left, queen bed, though. We can provide extra blankets and pillows. It’s $220 for the night. Victoria didn’t hesitate, though I saw something flicker across her face. Book it. We’ll be there within the hour.
