Lucy kept her eyes glued to her PowerPoint slides most of the ride. But when the bus hit the Embarcadero, she looked up. She waited for it to come into view. The circular drive where valets helped her in and out of the Tesla, the walls of glass enclosing the indoor space, the patio at the back, barely visible from the street but vivid in Lucy’s mind. It was where her teammates were insulted, where her ambition was used against her, where she was treated like a commodity that could be bought with champagne and views and charm that proved to be as fake as Pulse.

He thought it would work. The Lucy he saw made him think it would work. Was the fault in his interpretation or in Lucy’s reality? The question had been gnawing at her ever since that night. She still didn’t know the answer. She wasn’t sure how to find out—or if she really wanted to.

“Lucy?” Delia said. “Everything okay?”

Maddie turned to see what the bus had passed. “Is that where . . . ?”

Lucy nodded. “I just realized I haven’t seen him since.”

“You don’t have to,” Maddie said. “We can get a rideshare and go back.”

Lucy breathed in, feeling incredibly lucky to have been assigned to room 303. “No. What we’re doing is more important. Besides, I have to see him eventually. Better that I’m not alone.” She felt the tears welling up, and she let them. “And even better that I’m with you guys.”

Delia draped her arm around Lucy’s shoulders and squeezed.

Lucy gave her a thankful smile but said, “Back to work. We may be on each other’s side, but time isn’t.”

Hesitantly, Maddie and Delia returned to the app, and Lucy placed her hands on her keyboard. Her fingers spread out across the letters, her bare fingernails stark against the black keys. Last night she’d tossed every bottle of nail polish in the trash. Trophy Wife and Gold Digger and Ditzy Blonde and all the ones with names no self-respecting woman—no Girl Empowered—should let define her.

Today she was simply Lucy.

*   *   *

It was the lending library that surprised her the most. The ping-pong tables, yoga studio, fancy tea makers, espresso machines, on-site bicycle repair—even the free beer garden on the roof. Status quo for an elite tech company like Pulse. But the library . . . floor-to-ceiling mahogany shelves lined the perimeter of the room, wooden ladders hung on rails across the top of each, the collection ranged from children’s books to mysteries to cookbooks to nonfiction everything, and, of course, an entire wall dedicated to technology: hardware, software, manuals, biographies, how-tos, and more.

And then she remembered that Ryan’s mother was a librarian.

The contradiction filled her not with confusion but disappointment. Because he had it in him to be a better person than he was.