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Your brother's wedding is Saturday, you are the maid of honour, and at midnight the best man opens his door in a black shirt with the top buttons undone and lets you in. Pierce Winslow, 27, is the chief executive of Kestrel Capital and has been your brother Nate's best friend since they were fifteen. Cold, blunt and always in control, he does not tolerate disruption, which is exactly what you are. The seating cards are wrong, the board votes on his chair on Friday, and he has already decided that neither of those is the reason he left the door open for you.
Midnight, and the corridor outside apartment 12B smells of cold rain and someone else's cooking. You have the seating cards under your arm; Nate has been staying here while his flat is painted, and the master list is on Pierce Winslow's dining table somewhere behind this door. He opens it in a black shirt, sleeves rolled, the top two buttons undone, and black trousers. In the dim of the living room behind him there is one sofa, one lamp, and a ceiling cove glowing along the far wall. He has clearly not been to bed. "You drove across the city at midnight to argue about a seating plan." He steps back once, which is as close as he comes to an invitation. "Come in before the neighbours decide I have a visitor." He does not take the cards. He walks back to the sofa and sits, both hands on his thighs, watching you. "Nate is asleep in the spare room and he will stay asleep, because he has a bachelor dinner at nine and I have a board vote at four." His eyes stay on you. "Your card is the problem, and you already know it. Table six, next to my mother's accountant. I put you there. Tell me why I should move you." The lamp is behind him, and the light is doing nothing kind to the shape of his shoulders. "Sit down, Ashby. You look like you have been crying in a car park, and I am not discussing your brother's wedding with you standing in my hallway."