Chapter 7 - The Dinner on the River
That evening, Vivian invited Carter to dinner at her private penthouse on Sutton Place, overlooking the East River.
There were no private chefs, no corporate attorneys, and no photographers waiting outside.
Vivian opened the door herself, wearing a soft cream cashmere sweater, dark denim, and wool socks. Her hair was down, falling in soft waves around her shoulders, making her look remarkably young, vulnerable, and radiant.
"The security team said Brenda Moss made a scene at your office today," Vivian said, taking his coat and hanging it on an antique wooden rack in the foyer.
"She tried," Carter said, smiling faintly as he took off his shoes. "It didn't work. Facts have a way of resisting intimidation."
"I heard," Vivian laughed softly, leading him into the open kitchen where the aroma of garlic, rosemary, and roasting lamb filled the air. "My legal team called me laughing. They said Derek Moss confessed to the compliance officer before the elevator even reached the ground floor."
Carter watched her move around the kitchen with an ease he hadn't anticipated from a billionaire CEO. She poured two glasses of red wine, handing one to him.
"You cooked?" Carter asked, genuinely surprised.
"Julian and I grew up in an Italian neighborhood in Boston before the trust fund matured," Vivian said, her eyes twinkling. "I make an incredible osso buco, Carter. Don't look so skeptical."
They sat at a small wooden dining table near the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, watching the red and white lights of the Queensboro Bridge glitter against the dark water below.
For the first time in six years, Carter felt the knot of tension in his chest begin to loosen.
They didn't talk about stocks, mergers, or corporate politics.
Vivian asked him about Diane.
She didn't ask with pity or awkward hesitation; she asked with genuine, deep reverence for the woman who had shared his youth.
Carter told her about their small wedding in upstate New York, Diane's laugh that could cut through an entire room, and the quiet dignity with which she had faced her final months.
Tears welled in Carter’s eyes as he spoke, but for the first time, the grief didn't feel like a suffocating stone. It felt like an old scar, honored and acknowledged by someone who understood the sacred weight of memory.
"She would be proud of you, Carter," Vivian whispered, reaching across the table and covering his scarred hand with her warm palm.
May you like
"I spent six years thinking I died with her, Vivian," Carter confessed, his voice thick with raw emotion.
"You didn't die," Vivian said softly, her thumb brushing gently against his knuckles. "You just went to sleep. And it's time to wake up."
