The keys to the Tribeca office felt heavier than they should have in my palm. I stood outside the building at seven-thirty in the morning, watching the sunrise paint the street in shades of gold and amber. The windows of my office—my office—reflected the light back at me.
Chen Consulting, LLC. Officially established three days ago. Office lease signed two weeks before that. Website live as of yesterday at midnight, when Elena and I had finally approved the design over our fourth bottle of wine.
I was terrified.
I unlocked the door and climbed the stairs to the third floor. The space was small—just under eight hundred square feet—but the light was perfect, streaming through the large windows that overlooked the street. I'd spent the last week furnishing it: a desk I'd found at an estate sale in Brooklyn, refinished to a deep walnut shine. Two chairs for clients, comfortable but professional. A small conference table. Bookshelves I'd assembled myself at two in the morning when I couldn't sleep, Elena handing me screws and making sarcastic comments about Swedish furniture instructions.
The sign for the door had arrived yesterday. Brushed steel, simple and elegant: Chen Consulting, LLC - Financial Strategy & Business Development.
I hung it now, my hands steadier than I expected. When I stepped back to look at it, something shifted in my chest. This was real. I'd actually done it.
My phone buzzed. A text from my mother: First day! Your father and I are so proud. Remember to eat lunch.
I smiled. Some things never changed.
The office felt too quiet, too empty. I made coffee in the small kitchenette I'd set up in the corner, the familiar ritual grounding me. Then I sat at my desk—my desk—and opened my laptop.
I had three potential client meetings scheduled over the next two weeks. One was a referral from Richard Henderson, who'd apparently been serious about that conversation at the gala. The other two had come through the website, inquiries from mid-size companies looking for strategic financial consulting.
It was a start.
The intercom buzzed at nine o'clock sharp. I'd almost forgotten I'd scheduled interviews today.
"Ms. Chen? I'm here for the assistant position interview. Maya Patel."
I pressed the button. "Third floor. Come on up."
The woman who appeared in my doorway sixty seconds later was young—maybe twenty-three, twenty-four—with dark hair pulled back in a neat bun and an expression that managed to be both nervous and determined. She wore a simple black dress and carried a leather portfolio that looked new.
She reminded me of someone. It took me a moment to realize: she reminded me of myself, seven years ago, before I'd learned to make myself smaller.
"Ms. Chen." She extended her hand, her grip firm. "Thank you so much for seeing me."
"Please, sit." I gestured to one of the client chairs. "Tell me about yourself."
She'd graduated from Baruch six months ago with a degree in business administration. She'd been working temp jobs, applying everywhere, trying to get her foot in the door. When she'd seen the posting for Chen Consulting, she'd researched me—found the few articles that had been written about my divorce, about the settlement, about my new venture.
"I know this is probably forward," she said, her voice steady despite the nervousness in her eyes, "but what you're doing—building something from nothing, on your own terms—that's exactly what I want to learn how to do. I'm not looking for just a job. I'm looking for a place where I can grow. Where someone will actually teach me, not just have me fetch coffee."
I studied her. She held my gaze, didn't look away.
"The pay isn't going to be great to start," I said honestly. "This is a new company. I can offer you forty thousand a year, health insurance after ninety days, and a lot of very hard work."
"I'm not afraid of hard work." She leaned forward slightly. "My parents came here from India with two suitcases and a dream. I grew up watching them build a life from nothing. I know what it takes."
Something in my chest tightened. "When can you start?"
Her eyes widened. "You're—you're offering me the position?"
"I'm offering you an opportunity," I corrected. "What you make of it is up to you. But yes, if you want it, the job is yours."
"Yes." The word came out almost breathless. "Yes, absolutely. I can start tomorrow."
"Monday," I said. "That gives you the weekend to celebrate and me the weekend to panic about having an employee."
She laughed, the sound bright and genuine. "Thank you, Ms. Chen. You won't regret this."
After she left, I sat at my desk and let myself feel it: the weight of responsibility, the thrill of possibility. I'd just hired my first employee. I was building something real.
My phone rang. Diane Rothstein.
"Sophia. Good news. The settlement came through. Alexander's team finally stopped fighting. The judge agreed with our assessment of your contributions."
I gripped the phone tighter. "How much?"
"Eight point two million, plus the apartment in Brooklyn Heights that was purchased during the marriage, plus your grandmother's five hundred thousand returned with interest. The prenup was essentially thrown out based on the evidence we provided of your direct financial contributions to his business."
Eight point two million dollars. Not because I'd been married to Alexander Ashford. Because I'd earned it.
"Sophia? You still there?"
"I'm here." My voice sounded strange. "I just—I didn't think—"
"You deserved every penny," Diane said firmly. "More, honestly, but this was the number we could make stick. The money will be transferred within thirty days. Congratulations. You're officially divorced and officially wealthy."
After we hung up, I walked to the window and looked out at the street below. People rushing to work, to meetings, to lives I knew nothing about. Somewhere in this city, Alexander was receiving the same news. Maybe he was angry. Maybe he was relieved.
I found I didn't care.
The intercom buzzed again at two o'clock. I wasn't expecting anyone.
"Yes?"
"There's a gentleman here to see you. Says his name is Alexander Ashford."
My stomach dropped. "I don't have an appointment with him."
"He says it's important. Should I send him away?"
I looked around my office. My space. My territory.
"Send him up."
I heard his footsteps on the stairs before I saw him. When he appeared in the doorway, I barely recognized him. His suit was wrinkled, his tie loose. He had dark circles under his eyes and his hair—always perfectly styled—looked like he'd been running his hands through it.
"Sophia." He said my name like a prayer. "Thank you for seeing me."
"I didn't say you could come in." I stayed behind my desk, standing. "What do you want, Alexander?"
He stepped into the office, looking around. I saw him take in the desk, the bookshelves, the sign on the door. Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe, or realization.
"This is really happening," he said. "You're really doing this."
"Did you think I was bluffing?"
"I thought—" He stopped, shook his head. "Victoria left me. Did you know that?"
"No. And I don't care."
"The settlement came through today." He moved closer to my desk. "Eight million dollars, Sophia. You're taking eight million dollars."
"I earned eight million dollars," I corrected. "Actually, I earned more. But eight million is what the judge agreed I could prove."
"This is insane." He was agitated now, pacing. "We can still fix this. The divorce is final, fine, but we can—we can work together. You clearly have talent. I was wrong not to see it before. We could be partners. Real partners this time."
I stared at him. "You think I want to work with you?"
"I think we were good together. I think I made mistakes, but—" He stopped in front of my desk, his hands gripping the edge. "I miss you. I miss having you in my life. Even if it's not—even if we're not married anymore, we could still—"
"No."
"Sophia, please—"
"No." I walked around the desk, standing my ground. "You don't miss me, Alexander. You miss what I did for you. You miss having someone to make you look good, to fix your mistakes, to build your empire while you took the credit. That's not partnership. That's exploitation."
"That's not fair—"
"You cheated on me for six months." My voice was steady, cold. "You made me feel small and insignificant and grateful for scraps of your attention. You dismissed my intelligence, my contributions, my worth. And now that I'm gone, now that your business is struggling and Victoria's left and you're alone, you want me back. Not because you love me. Because you need me."
He flinched. "I do love you."
"You love what I can do for you. That's not the same thing."
"I made mistakes—"
"You made choices." I crossed my arms. "And I'm making mine. I don't want your apologies. I don't want your partnership. I don't want anything from you except for you to leave my office and never come back."
"Sophia—"
"Leave. Now."
He didn't move. I walked to my desk and pressed the intercom button.
"Yes, Ms. Chen?"
"Please call building security. I have someone in my office who needs to be escorted out."
Alexander's face went white. "You're calling security on me?"
"You're in my office uninvited, refusing to leave. Yes, I'm calling security."
For a long moment, we stared at each other. I saw the exact second he realized I meant it. That I wasn't going to back down, wasn't going to soften, wasn't going to let him manipulate his way back into my life.
"You've changed," he said quietly.
"No," I replied. "I just stopped pretending to be smaller than I am."
He left before security arrived. I watched from my window as he emerged onto the street below, standing there for a moment like he didn't know where to go. Then he walked away, his shoulders hunched, and disappeared around the corner.
I waited for the satisfaction to come. The triumph. The sense of victory.
Instead, I just felt tired. And free.
At four o'clock, my first official client arrived. Thomas Chen—no relation, though we'd joked about it on the phone—owned a small manufacturing company in New Jersey. Fifty employees, steady business, but he wanted to expand and didn't know how to structure the financing.
I'd spent three days preparing for this meeting. I had spreadsheets, projections, three different strategic options laid out with pros and cons for each.
"Ms. Chen." He shook my hand, his grip firm. He was in his fifties, with gray hair and kind eyes. "Thank you for meeting with me."
"Thank you for considering Chen Consulting." I gestured to the conference table. "Please, sit. Can I get you coffee?"
We spent ninety minutes going through his business. I asked questions, took notes, listened carefully to not just what he said but what he didn't say. Then I walked him through my preliminary analysis, showing him where I saw opportunities, where I saw risks, what I thought his best path forward might be.
He listened intently, occasionally asking questions that showed he was sharp, engaged. When I finished, he sat back in his chair.
"How soon can you start?"
My heart jumped. "You want to hire me?"
"I've talked to six consultants in the last two months," he said. "You're the first one who actually listened instead of just trying to sell me a package. You're the first one who looked at my business like it mattered, not just like it was a commission. So yes, I want to hire you. If you're willing to take on a small client."
"Every client matters," I said. "Size doesn't determine value."
He smiled. "Then I think we'll work well together."
We spent another thirty minutes going over terms, timeline, deliverables. When he left, he had a contract to review and I had my first official client.
I sat at my desk after he'd gone, staring at the signed letter of intent. Chen Consulting had its first client. I had my first client.
My phone buzzed. Elena: How did it go???
He signed, I texted back. We have our first client.
The response was immediate: SOPHIA FUCKING CHEN. I'm bringing champagne. Don't leave.
I laughed, the sound surprising me. When had I last laughed like that? Free and genuine and full of joy?
I pulled out my new business cards, delivered just this morning. Simple, elegant design. Sophia Chen, Founder & Principal Consultant, Chen Consulting, LLC.
Not Sophia Chen-Ashford. Not Mrs. Alexander Ashford. Just Sophia Chen.
I ran my thumb over the embossed letters, feeling the weight of them. This morning, I'd hung a sign on my door. This afternoon, I'd stood up to Alexander in my own office and watched him leave. Tonight, I'd signed my first client.
Four months ago, I'd left a penthouse with a single suitcase and a shattered heart. I'd thought my life was ending.
I'd been wrong.
It was just beginning.
I looked around my small office—the desk I'd refinished, the bookshelves I'd assembled, the windows that let in all that light. It wasn't much. Not yet.
But it was mine.
And I was just getting started.