Too Late For Regret, Mr. Carlson

The cafe was in the West Village, small, dark, and smelling of roasted beans. Alexia sat in the back corner, wearing sunglasses to hide her swollen eyes.

Clark Carlson slid into the booth opposite her. He looked like a softer, kinder version of his brother. He didn't have Jensen's sharp edges.

He looked at Alexia, and his face fell. "Jesus, Alexia. You look like you're dying."

I feel like it, she said. "But I'm not. I'm just… done."

He nodded slowly. He reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a key card. It was old, the plastic worn smooth.

Grandfather knows you're coming, Clark said.

Alexia froze. "You told Arthur?"

He called me. He saw the photos from the Pierre. He's furious, Alexia. He said no Pierce should be treated like a prop.

Tears pricked Alexia's eyes. Arthur Pierce. Her grandfather. The only family she had left. He was old, frail, and lived in the shadow of his past glory, but he loved her.

Clark pushed the card across the table. "Go to the estate. The safe in the library. You know the code?"

My birthday, she whispered.

Clark squeezed her hand. "He's your husband, Alexia, but he's an idiot. He thinks you're furniture. Prove him wrong."

Alexia drove to Long Island in a daze. The Pierce estate was nothing like the Carlson modern glass fortress. It was old stone, ivy, and history.

Mrs. Danvers, the housekeeper who had raised Alexia after her parents died, opened the door. She didn't say a word. She just pulled Alexia into a hug that smelled of lavender and starch.

Grandfather was in the library, sitting in his wheelchair by the fire.

Alexia knelt beside him. "I'm sorry," she sobbed. "I tried, Grandpa. I really tried."

He placed a trembling hand on her head. "You tried to love a stone, child. Stones don't love back. They just weigh you down."

He pointed to the bookshelf. "Open it."

Alexia moved the false book-The Count of Monte Cristo-and the panel slid open. The safe sat there, cold and steel. She typed in the numbers. 0-7-1-2.

The door clicked open.

Inside lay her life. The life she had paused. Her passport. Her birth certificate. And at the bottom, a thick envelope.

Alexia opened it. It was the patent. The algorithm she had written in college. The one Jensen said was "cute" but "not commercially viable." The one that was now the backbone of Carlson Global's logistics system.

She took it all.

Arthur held out a card. It was black, heavy titanium.

This is what's left of the Pierce family trust, he said. "It's not much compared to Carlson money, but it's yours. It's enough to start over."

I can't, Alexia started.

Take it! his voice cracked like a whip. "This is war, Alexia. You don't go to war without ammunition. Make him regret the day he overlooked you."

Alexia took the card. It felt cold against her skin.

She packed everything into a waterproof folder. She stood up, feeling lighter, even though the physical pain in her gut was getting worse.

Alexia walked out to her car. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the lawn.

She took her phone out. She snapped a picture of the passport, the patent, and the black card.

She sent it to Clark.

Got them.

A second later, Clark replied.

Showtime.