THE NEW PROSPECT - Breadcrumbing

 

The rest of the night at Sky Lounge passed in a champagne-tinted blur. Every time my friends clinked glasses to my success, I felt a strange mixture of pride and unease. Their world was becoming my world, but something still felt off-kilter, like wearing shoes that were slightly too big.

By the time I stepped out of my Uber at Mike's apartment building, it was past midnight. The familiar brick facade looked shabbier than usual, or maybe my eyes had just adjusted to sleeker views. I hesitated at the entrance, my hand hovering over the keypad. The thought of going up to that cramped apartment with its gaming posters and instant ramen stockpile made me pause.

"Excuse me."

The voice was deep and confident—the kind that commanded boardrooms and closed million-dollar deals. I turned to find a man in an impeccably tailored suit holding the door open. The streetlight caught his Rolex, and even in the dim lighting, I could tell his watch cost more than Mike's annual salary.

"You looked like you could use some assistance," he said, offering a smile that probably closed those million-dollar deals. His eyes, sharp and assessing, took in my designer dress and heels—gifts from my recent splurges.

"Thanks, but I was just..." I gestured vaguely, suddenly self-conscious of admitting I lived in this decidedly unglamorous building.

"Having second thoughts?" His eyes—calculating yet somehow warm—met mine. "About going home, I mean."

Something in his tone suggested he understood exactly what I was feeling. Before I could respond, he extended his hand. "James Crawford. I'm actually here meeting with the building owner about a potential acquisition. These older properties have such... untapped potential."

I shook his hand, noting the perfect manicure, the subtle cologne that probably cost more than all of Mike's gaming collectibles combined. "Sarah Mitchell. I'm just..." I stopped myself from saying 'visiting.'

"Senior Marketing Manager at Morrison & Partners, if I'm not mistaken?" His smile widened at my surprised look. "I was at the Thomson merger meeting last month. Your presentation was impressive."

Heat crept up my neck. "I didn't realize anyone noticed."

"I make it a point to notice talent." He leaned slightly closer, his presence commanding yet not intrusive. The scent of his cologne wrapped around me like an expensive promise. "Actually, I'm heading to Vesper for a nightcap. Their whiskey selection is exceptional. Do you care to join me? We could discuss that marketing strategy you proposed."

My phone buzzed—Mike, probably wondering where I was. His contact photo popped up: him grinning in that worn Marvel shirt he refused to throw away, a gaming headset askew on his head. The responsible thing would be to decline, to head upstairs, to slip into bed beside my boyfriend, who loved me without condition or pretense.

"Vesper's actually one of my favorite spots," I heard myself say instead.

James's smile deepened, knowing and appreciative. He hailed a cab with the kind of casual authority that made even the simple gesture look sophisticated. In the backseat, I found myself hyper-aware of his presence—the subtle scent of his cologne, the way his cufflinks caught the passing streetlights, and how his knee occasionally brushed against mine.

"So, tell me," he said, his voice low and measured, "what's a woman of your caliber doing in that part of town?"

The question should have offended me. Instead, I felt a thrill at being seen—really seen—by someone who seemed to understand ambition.

"It's complicated," I replied, fiddling with my phone. Another message from Mike had popped up: "Hope you're okay. Left some tea on the nightstand for you."

James noticed my screen but didn't comment. Instead, he simply said, "Things often are. Until they're not."

Vesper was exactly the kind of place Mike would have felt uncomfortable in—all dark wood, leather, and subtle lighting. The hostess greeted James by name, leading us to what was clearly his regular table, tucked away in a corner with a view of the city.

"Macallan 25, neat," he told the waitress, then looked at me. "And for the lady?"

"The same." I wasn't usually a whiskey drinker, but tonight felt different. Tonight, I wanted to be the kind of woman who knew her single malts.

"Bold choice," he smiled, approval evident in his voice. "Most people play it safe."

"Maybe I'm tired of playing it safe."

The words hung between us, heavy with implication. James studied me over the rim of his glass when it arrived, his gaze both appreciative and calculating.

"Tell me about your five-year plan," he said suddenly.

I laughed. "Isn't that a job interview question?"

"Life's longest interview is the one we have with ourselves." He set his glass down, leaning forward slightly. "I watched you at that merger meeting. You have something rare—hunger mixed with intelligence. But you're holding yourself back."

"I just got promoted," I protested.

"And yet here you are, at 1 AM, looking like you're trying to decide between the life you have and the life you want." He leaned closer, his presence magnetic. "What's stopping you from reaching higher? Is it the building I found you in front of? Or perhaps... someone in it?"

My chest tightened. "That's rather presumptuous."

"I prefer 'perceptive.'" His smile was disarming. "I used to date someone who worked at a local bookstore. Sweet girl, loved literature, could talk about Proust for hours. But she was content." He said the word like it was a diagnosis. "There's nothing wrong with contentment, Sarah unless you're someone who wants more."

The whiskey burned pleasantly in my throat. "And you think you know what I want?"

"I think you know what you want. You're just afraid to admit it." He pulled out a business card—thick, expensive stock with raised lettering. "I'm having dinner tomorrow at Le Cirque. Eight PM. Join me, and we can discuss what ' reaching higher' might look like."

My phone buzzed again. Mike's contact photo appeared—him grinning at the camera, wearing that worn Marvel t-shirt he loved. The contrast between his world and where I sit now couldn't have been starker.

James stood, buttoning his jacket with practiced ease. "The choice is yours, Sarah. But remember—we become the choices we make."

He paid the bill before I could protest, then paused beside my chair. "Oh, and Sarah? Wear that black dress you had on at the merger meeting. It suited you."

I watched him leave, his business card heavy in my hand. When I finally checked my phone, there were three messages from Mike:

"Getting worried..." "Hope you're safe." "Made you a midnight snack if you're hungry."

I stared at the messages, then back at the business card. The embossed letters seemed to shimmer in Vesper's dim light: "James Crawford, Executive Director, Sterling Global Investments."

Taking out my phone, I typed, "Sorry, I lost track of time. Don't wait up." Then, after a moment's hesitation, I saved James's number.

The city felt different as I finally headed home—more awake, more full of possibility. Or maybe I was the one who was different. Either way, I knew tomorrow's dinner choice wasn't really about dinner at all.

When I finally made it back to Mike's apartment, he was asleep on the couch, the TV still playing quietly. A cup of chamomile tea—now cold—sat on the coffee table beside a plate of his "famous" grilled cheese. The sight of it, this simple act of care, made my throat tight.

I stood there for a moment, looking at his peaceful face, the slight smile even in sleep. My phone felt heavy in my purse, and James's business card was tucked safely in my wallet. The two worlds couldn't have been more different—Mike's comfortable, predictable love versus the intoxicating unknown James represented.

Mike stirred. "Hey, you're home," he mumbled sleepily. "Was worried."

"Just lost track of time," I said, the lie coming easily. "Go back to sleep."

"Made your tea," he yawned. "And a snack."

"I noticed. Thank you."

He reached for my hand, pulling me down onto the couch beside him. "Love you," he murmured, already drifting back to sleep.

I sat there in the dim light, Mike's hand in mine, while across town, a business card with tomorrow's dinner invitation burned in my wallet. Two paths stretched before me—one familiar and safe, the other gleaming with possibility.

Tomorrow at eight, I'd have to choose.