Kingmaker

Lucas Macbeth—my husband of 23 years, stood in the doorway of our bedroom, coat half-on, eyes alight. I was sitting in our bedroom alcove in a chair, reading as was my habit after work. I looked up, my gaze steady.

“They want me to meet with Helen and Marco,” he said, voice filled with a restrained thrill. “After hours. At the club on 47th.”

I kept my expression neutral, letting a small smile play on my lips. “At Pendrake, meetings like that don’t happen for just anyone.”

“They hinted Dunkirk’s losing his touch,” he said, brushing an invisible speck of dust from his lapel. “That they need someone with… vision.”

I smiled and teased him. “So they’re giving you Helen’s job so she can finally take the lead?”

He laughed “That old nag?” He said. “She doesn’t have the chops. They would sooner pick you.”