Chapter 2 - The 6:30 Coffee
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They talked for two hours on that rooftop. Healthcare policy, urban infrastructure, transparency laws. Nathaniel couldn't remember the last time someone argued with him without calculating the risk to their career.
When she made a mistake in her logic, he pointed it out. Instead of getting defensive, Clare simply looked down at her notebook.
"Okay," she said, crossing out a line. "That changes the model. Let me recalculate."
And she did. Right in front of him.
When she finally left to prepare for a panel, she paused by the elevator.
"If you actually want to understand this issue from someone who tracks human outcomes," she said, "there’s a coffee place on 47th that opens at 6:30. They don’t put ice in anything."
Nathaniel arrived at 6:25 the next morning.
Clare walked in at 6:31, notebook already open. They sat in a corner booth, the smell of roasted beans and burnt toast hanging in the air, and talked for another three hours.
By December, they had fallen into a rhythm. They met in borrowed booths, late-night diners, and once on a freezing bench in Riverside Park because neither wanted to say goodbye.
Clare knew he had money. His watch cost more than her rent, and his suits were impeccably tailored. But she never asked.
Once, he took her to an exclusive Michelin-starred restaurant. She took one look at the menu.
"This is forty dollars for something described as deconstructed," Clare whispered, horrified. "Can we go somewhere with actual food?"
They ended up at a diner on 9th Avenue. Nathaniel ate an entire plate of greasy hash browns, feeling a strange thrill.
He was falling for her. But he was also lying to her.
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He hadn't told her about Ashcroft Holdings. He hadn't told her about his father's ruthless empire.
And, most importantly, he hadn't told her about Victoria.
