Chapter 5: The Missing Ingredient

"Someone discovered the block button," Julian announced when Grant entered Halcyon's private lounge.

The conversation around him collapsed.

Grant removed his coat with deliberate care. "Say it again."

Julian lifted both hands. "Just an observation."

Mason shot him a warning look. Connor studied Grant from the opposite sofa, noticing the untouched drink and the tension beneath his stillness.

One of the men suggested a game to change the subject. A few minutes later, the door opened and Halcyon's best-known hostess stepped inside.

"Celeste, perfect timing," someone called. "Grant needs cheering up."

Celeste crossed the room in a black silk dress and rested a hand on Grant's shoulder. "Rough night, Mr. Holloway?"

He stood before she could sit beside him.

"Enjoy yourselves."

Mason followed him into the corridor. "Grant, wait."

"I'm going to the office."

"At midnight?"

Grant did not answer.

The driver opened the rear door of the executive sedan. "Waverly Heights, sir?"

The image of the empty bedroom arrived too quickly.

"Headquarters."

At Holloway Holdings, the night staff scrambled upright as he crossed the executive floor. His assistant met him outside his office with a folder still tucked beneath one arm.

"Order congee," Grant said.

"From where?"

"That restaurant in Westbridge with the award-winning chef."

Twenty minutes later, an elegant lacquered box appeared on his desk. Inside was abalone congee finished with scallions and a ribbon of sesame oil.

Grant tasted two spoonfuls.

"What's wrong with it?" his assistant asked.

Nothing was wrong with it. The rice was silkier than Clara's. The stock had taken hours. Every ingredient cost more than an entire pot of the plain millet porridge she used to make.

It did not taste like something prepared because the cook knew his stomach would hurt.

Grant set down the spoon. "Take it away."

His assistant reached for the box, then hesitated. "Should I order something else?"

Grant looked at the spread of contracts awaiting his signature. Clara used to call at eleven if he was still at headquarters. At midnight she would appear with food, ignore his objections, and sit on the office sofa until he finished. He had called it hovering. The staff had called it the only reason their chief executive remembered he had a body.

"No," Grant said. "Cancel the rest of my schedule."

"For tonight?"

"For the morning."

The assistant removed the congee. Its expensive aroma lingered after the door closed, rich and completely useless.

* * *

Rain followed Clara home from Beacon Hill Medical Center.

She unlocked Sloane's apartment and heard a muffled laugh from the living room. When she turned on the light, a bare-chested man sprang away from the sofa while Sloane calmly pulled the strap of her slip back onto her shoulder.

"Clara?" Sloane said.

Clara turned toward the door. "I'll give you privacy."

"Wait." Sloane tossed the man his shirt. "Bedroom, please."

He grinned as he passed Clara. "Nice to meet you."

"You too, Kevin."

"It's Steven," Sloane corrected.

Clara looked between them. "Right."

As soon as he disappeared down the hall, Sloane poured two glasses of water. Her amusement faded when she saw Clara's face.

"You went to the hospital."

Clara wrapped both hands around the glass. "I left food with a nurse."

"You didn't speak to Professor Caldwell?"

"I stood outside her room."

"And ran."

Clara said nothing.

Rain ticked against the windows. In the hallway, Steven turned on music at a tactful volume.

"I heard her talking about me," Clara said at last. "She kept a place open. Not officially. Just in her mind. I spent years telling myself she had forgotten."

Sloane's expression softened. "That story was convenient."

"Yes."

"Because if she forgot you, you didn't have to admit you abandoned something that still wanted you back."

Clara stared into the water. Sloane had never learned how to make comfort gentle, but she was often accurate.

Sloane sat across from her. She had watched Miriam break rules to give an undergraduate access to graduate research and defend Clara before faculty who thought genius required a pedigree. She had also watched Clara abandon it all.

"How long are you going to punish both of you?" Sloane asked.

"I'm not punishing her."

"Then stop hiding from her."

The glass warmed between Clara's palms. Miriam's voice still echoed in her mind: Hope is an undignified habit.

"What if the apology is only for me?" Clara asked. "What if I go there expecting forgiveness because I finally need it?"

"Then don't ask for forgiveness. Tell her the truth and let her decide what to do with it."

That distinction settled somewhere deep. Clara had spent six years managing Grant's reactions before she voiced a need. Miriam deserved an apology that did not demand a particular ending.

"Come with me tomorrow," Clara said. "I need to apologize properly."

Sloane recoiled. "Absolutely not. Professor Caldwell failed me in the only elective I ever took outside business school. I still feel guilty when I see a microscope."

Despite herself, Clara smiled.

"I'm serious."

"So am I." Sloane tapped one nail against the glass. "But I know someone she won't throw out."

"Who?"

Sloane's expression brightened with sudden purpose.

"My cousin Elias."

Clara knew the name before Sloane explained. Dr. Elias Mercer appeared in journals she once read beside Grant in bed, hiding the pages whenever he accused her of thinking about the laboratory again. Meeting him would mean touching the world she had tried to seal away.

For the first time, that prospect frightened her less than remaining outside Miriam's door.