Chapter 1 - THE EMPTY CHAIR
At 7:43 on New Year’s Eve, Ethan Mercer discovered that six billion dollars could buy almost anything in Chicago except a chair at a family restaurant.
“I have a reservation,” he said for the third time, holding out his phone. “Mercer. Seven thirty. Table for one.”
The young hostess barely glanced at the confirmation.
“We’re full.”
“You just seated a family who walked in after me.”
“They had a reservation.”
“So do I.”
Her smile disappeared.
“Sir, I don’t know what else to tell you.”
Then she turned away.
Just like that.
Ethan remained beside the coat rack while laughter rolled through Bellweather Grill. Families leaned across tables covered with paper party hats. Children shook plastic noisemakers. Couples took pictures beneath silver balloons.
Nobody knew that the man being ignored near the entrance was the founder and CEO of Mercer Dynamics, a technology company whose downtown headquarters occupied forty-two floors of glass and steel.
Nobody knew his face from magazine covers because Ethan had spent years avoiding publicity.
Tonight he had left his driver home, put on an old charcoal coat and driven himself.
He had wanted, for once, to be nobody.
Now he was learning exactly what that felt like.
His phone buzzed.
Another message from his chief operating officer.
Board emergency. Need your approval before midnight.
Ethan silenced it.
Across the room, a little girl in a green dress was staring at him.
He looked behind himself.
Nobody.
The girl raised one hand and waved.
Ethan glanced at himself, then pointed to his chest.
Me?
She nodded enthusiastically.
Her mother noticed.
She followed her daughter’s gaze toward Ethan and immediately looked embarrassed.
“Lily,” Ethan heard her whisper. “Don’t stare.”
“But he’s alone.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“There’s an empty chair.”
The mother looked back at him.
For one strange second, Ethan felt more exposed than he had during billion-dollar negotiations.
Then she stood.
She was perhaps thirty-three, wearing a cream sweater, black jeans and a winter coat that had clearly seen several winters too many. Her brown hair had been pinned loosely at the back of her neck.
She crossed the dining room.
“Hi.”
Ethan straightened.
“Hello.”
“My daughter has decided you’re not allowed to spend New Year’s Eve standing beside a fake plant.”
He looked at the dusty artificial ficus beside him.
“That does seem like an unusually cruel way to start a year.”
Her mouth twitched.
“We have an extra chair. You’re welcome to join us.”
Ethan stared at her.
“You don’t know me.”
“No.”
“I could be dangerous.”
She studied him.
“You’ve apologized twice for blocking the coat rack.”
“I did?”
“And you thanked the busboy when he almost ran into you.”
“That proves very little.”
“It proves enough for dinner.”
Behind her, the little girl waved again.
The woman extended her hand.
“Maya Collins.”
“Ethan.”
“Just Ethan?”
“For tonight.”
She raised one eyebrow but didn’t push.
“Okay, Just Ethan. Come eat.”
He should have refused.
Instead, he followed her.
The table was small and pushed against a window overlooking snow-dusted Milwaukee Avenue.
The girl grinned.
“I’m Lily. I’m seven.”
“Ethan. I’m forty-one.”
“That’s old.”
“Lily.”
“What? Forty-one is a lot.”
Ethan laughed.
He couldn’t remember the last time the sound had escaped him without effort.
Maya covered her face.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. She’s statistically correct.”
Lily pointed at the empty chair.
“You sit there.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Their dinner was ordinary.
Chicken tenders for Lily.
A turkey sandwich for Maya.
A cheeseburger for Ethan.
Yet an hour later, Ethan realized he had forgotten to check his phone.
Lily told him about losing a tooth during a spelling test.
May you like
Maya told him she worked overnight security at a downtown office complex.
“What about you?” Maya asked. “What do you do?”
