I changed course and walked over to the bench. Excuse me, sir, I said softly. Are you all right? He looked up at me, his eyes a surprisingly clear and intelligent blue.
Just a bit cold, young lady, he said, his voice a low, raspy whisper. And I seemed to have missed the lunch service at the local shelter. I looked at the simple sandwich, turkey and Swiss on whole wheat, that I had packed for myself for the train ride.
It was the only food I had. Without a second thought, I took it out of my bag. Here, I said, offering it to him.
It’s not much, but it’s yours. He looked at the sandwich, then at me, a strange, unreadable expression on his face. He finally took it with a quiet nod.
Thank you, he said. That is very kind. I saw him shiver again.
On impulse, I unwrapped the expensive, soft cashmere scarf around my neck, the one David had insisted I wear. And you need this more than I do, I said, gently draping it over his thin shoulders. He looked down at the scarf, then back up at me, his intelligent eyes seeming to see right through me.
You are a very kind woman, he said. I just smiled, wished him well. And then, checking my watch, I realized with a jolt of panic that I was now officially, irrevocably, going to be late.
I hurried away, my heart pounding with a new kind of anxiety. I had failed the test before I had even walked through the door. I had no idea I had just passed the only test that truly mattered.
I left the old man on the park bench, the warmth of his grateful smile doing little to soothe the cold, rising tide of my own panic. I checked my watch. 5.12pm. I was now 12 minutes late for the most important and most terrifying meeting of my life.
I practically ran the last quarter mile, my sensible heels sinking into the soft, manicured grass of the sprawling longs that lined the private road. The gates to the Sterling Estate were even more intimidating up close. Two massive wrought iron behemoths with a golden S elegantly scrolled into the metalwork.
I pressed the button on the intercom, my voice trembling slightly as I announced myself, Ava Peters, here to see Mr. Sterling. There was a long, silent pause that felt like a judgment in itself, and then a loud, mechanical buzz as the gates slowly, silently swung inward. The driveway was a long, winding river of perfectly paved asphalt flanked on either side by a veritable forest of ancient, majestic oak trees.
It was less a driveway and more a private national park. At the end of it, the mansion itself came into view. It wasn’t just a house, it was a statement.
A sprawling, three-story stone masterpiece of classic architecture with wings that stretched out like a bird of prey and dozens of tall, dark windows that seemed to watch me like a hundred unblinking eyes. And waiting for me at the top of the grand, sweeping stone steps, standing under the imposing portico, was my fiancé. David was not smiling.
He was pacing back and forth, a caged animal of pure anxiety, his phone clutched in his hand. The moment he saw me hurrying up the steps, his face, which was already pale with worry, hardened into a mask of raw, unfiltered anger. Ava, where in God’s name have you been? he hissed, his voice a low, furious whisper, as he rushed to meet me, grabbing my arm.
You are seventeen minutes late. Seventeen! He hates, hates tardiness. I told you this.
I told you how important this was. This is a disaster, a complete and utter disaster. I’m so sorry, David, I said, my voice breathless from my run.
I know, I’m so sorry. I was walking from the station and there was this old man on a park bench. He looked so cold and he hadn’t eaten and I just, I had to stop.
He stared at me as if I had just started speaking in a foreign language. And old man, he repeated, his voice full of a stunned, horrified disbelief. A homeless man? You were late to a meeting with my reclusive billionaire father? A meeting that will decide the entire future of our lives because you stopped to chat with a homeless man? I didn’t chat, I said, a flicker of defiance cutting through my own anxiety.
I gave him my sandwich. He was hungry, David. It was then that his eyes fell upon my neck.
His face, which was already a mask of fury, seemed to contort even further. And where, he asked, his voice now dangerously quiet, is your scarf, the cashmere scarf, the one I bought you specifically for this meeting? I, I gave it away, I whispered. He was so cold.
You gave it away, he said, his voice rising to a choked, incredulous squeak. A $700 scarf to a bum? Ava, what is wrong with you? Do you have any idea what is on the line tonight? This isn’t a game. This isn’t one of your nonprofit charity cases.
This is my father. He judges everything. The way you look, the way you speak, the way you dress.
And you show up here late, flustered, and without the one expensive, respectable thing you were wearing? His words were like a series of small, sharp slaps. He wasn’t worried about me. He wasn’t even angry.
Not really. He was terrified. He was a scared little boy, desperate for the approval of a father he barely knew.
And in that moment, he saw me not as his partner, but as a liability, a loose cannon who had just jeopardized his inheritance. His cruelty, born of his own fear, was a painful thing to witness. And the old me, the me from a few months ago, would have been crushed by it.
But as I stood there on that grand, imposing porch, a strange, quiet calm began to settle over me. I had made a choice on that park bench. I had chosen compassion over punctuality.
I had chosen kindness over a cashmere scarf. And if that was the choice that made me unsuitable for the Sterling family, then so be it. I had passed a test that was far more important than his.
Just then, the massive carved oak doors of the mansion swung open. A tall, impossibly thin butler in a classic black-and-white uniform stood there, his face an impassive mask. Mr. Sterling, we’ll see you now, he said, his voice as dry as old paper.
David immediately straightened his tie, his panic returning. He grabbed my hand, his grip cold and sweaty. Okay, he whispered frantically.