Victoria Ashford woke at five thirty, as she had every morning for the past four years. No alarm necessary. Her body had learned the rhythm of duty the way some people learn languages or instruments: through relentless, joyless repetition.
She lay still for a moment in the California king bed that had once held two people and now held only her, watching the pre-dawn light creep across the coffered ceiling. Edmund had commissioned that ceiling from an artisan in Florence, back when they were still pretending their marriage was about more than quarterly earnings and social positioning. She'd thought it was excessive then. Now she barely noticed it.
The shower was hot enough to hurt. Victoria stood under the rainfall head and methodically worked through her mental checklist for the day: eight o'clock senior leadership meeting to review Q3 performance, ten thirty call with the marketing team about the holiday campaign, noon lunch with the Providence mayor about tax incentives, two o'clock walkthrough of the Thames Street property. Somewhere in there she'd need to eat something, though food had become more of an obligation than pleasure years ago.
She dressed with the same precision she applied to everything else. Theory suit in charcoal gray, fitted but not tight, expensive but not flashy. Moderate heels because she'd be walking the construction site later. Hair swept into a chignon that her stylist, Marcus, had perfected over a decade of twice weekly appointments. Minimal jewelry: the Cartier watch Edmund had given her for their tenth anniversary, small diamond studs, her wedding rings.
She still wore the rings. Not out of sentiment, exactly, but because taking them off felt like admitting something she wasn't ready to examine.
In her home office, a converted sunroom overlooking Narragansett Bay, Victoria reviewed the senior leadership deck one final time. The numbers were good. Better than good, actually. Ashford & Co. had posted seventeen percent growth year over year, expanding into three new international markets while maintaining their domestic stronghold. The luxury retail sector was contracting, but they were gaining market share. She'd done that. Not Edmund's ghost, not the Ashford name, not the inherited customer base. Her.
She should feel proud. She felt nothing.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Simone: Coffee before the firing squad? I have croissants.
Victoria allowed herself a small smile. Simone Laurent was officially her Chief Marketing Officer, but functionally her only real friend. The only person who'd known her before she became the brand, back when she was just a scholarship student at Brown with big dreams and terrible taste in men.
My office, 7:15 Victoria typed back.
The drive from her mansion in the historic district to Ashford & Co. headquarters took twelve minutes. Victoria had timed it obsessively when she first took over, paranoid about being late, about giving the board any excuse to question her capability. Now she could make the drive blindfolded, navigating the narrow colonial streets of Newport with the ease of someone who'd lived here twenty years but had never quite felt like she belonged.
The headquarters occupied a restored Gilded Age mansion on Bellevue Avenue, wedged between the summer cottages that railroad tycoons had built in the 1890s. Edmund's grandfather had bought it for a song during the Depression. Now it was worth thirty million, easy, but Victoria would never sell it. The building was Ashford & Co.'s origin story, its pedigree, its claim to American aristocracy. You didn't sell your founding myth.
Simone was already in Victoria's office when she arrived, perched on the leather sofa with an array of pastries from Pain D'Avignon spread across the coffee table.
"You look exhausted," Simone announced without preamble. Her French accent made even insults sound like endearments.
"Good morning to you too." Victoria poured coffee from the carafe Simone had thoughtfully prepared. Black, no sugar. She'd trained herself to like it that way.
"I'm serious, chérie. When was the last time you took a real vacation? And no, that weekend in Boston for the retail conference doesn't count."
"I'm fine."
"You're performing fine. There's a difference." Simone bit into a pain au chocolat with the unselfconscious pleasure of someone who'd never counted calories in her life. At fifty one, with silver threaded through her dark hair and laugh lines she refused to Botox away, she was everything Victoria had forgotten how to be: comfortable in her own skin.
Victoria sat in the chair across from her, crossing her legs at the ankle. "The Q3 numbers are excellent. Seventeen percent growth."
"I've seen the deck. We're killing it. Which is why I'm going to push you on something you'll hate."
"The flagship renovation."
"The flagship renovation." Simone set down her pastry and leaned forward. "We've been reviewing proposals for six months. Every single one is safe, boring, and guaranteed to make us look like every other luxury retailer desperately trying to stay relevant. We need something bold."
This conversation again. Victoria suppressed a sigh. "Bold is risky. The board wants proven execution."
"The board wants returns. And returns require differentiation." Simone pulled a portfolio from her bag and slid it across the table. "Look at this before you say no."
Victoria opened the portfolio reluctantly. Inside were renderings that made her breath catch. The flagship store reimagined not as retail space but as experiential art installation. Curved walls covered in hand painted tiles. Lighting that shifted throughout the day. Display cases that looked like sculpture. It was bold and risky and absolutely beautiful.
"Who's the designer?" Victoria heard herself ask.
"Kieran Hayes. Twenty eight, mostly self taught, brilliant. His installation at the New Museum last year got written up in Artforum. He's done some boutique retail work but nothing at this scale."
"Twenty eight." Victoria closed the portfolio. "Simone, we can't hire someone with barely any relevant experience for a multimillion dollar renovation."
"We can't afford not to. Look around, Victoria. Luxury retail is dying because we've forgotten how to make people feel anything. We've optimized everything until it's bloodless. This," she tapped the portfolio, "this makes people feel something."
Victoria looked at the renderings again. There was something in them that resonated, something about the way Hayes had prioritized beauty over efficiency, emotion over optimization. It reminded her of her own architectural sketches from college, before she'd learned that dreams were luxuries she couldn't afford.
"Set up a meeting," Victoria said. "But I'm not making any promises."
Simone's smile was triumphant. "Wouldn't expect any."
The senior leadership meeting was exactly as tedious as Victoria had anticipated. Fourteen executives around a mahogany conference table, reviewing slides that said in thirty bullet points what could have been communicated in three sentences. Margaret Ashford, Edmund's mother and still a major shareholder, attended via video from her winter home in Palm Beach, her face frozen in an expression of perpetual disapproval.
"These growth numbers are satisfactory," Margaret announced when Victoria finished presenting, "but I remain concerned about brand positioning. We're seeing increased competition from contemporary luxury brands that appeal to younger demographics. What's our strategy for relevance?"
Translation: you're getting older and so is our customer base, and I blame you.
"The flagship renovation will address that exact concern," Victoria replied smoothly. "We're exploring designs that honor our heritage while creating a more immersive, experiential retail environment."
"Exploring." Margaret's lips pursed. "We've been exploring for six months. When will we have a decision?"
"Within the month."
After the meeting, Victoria returned to her office and stood at the window, looking out over Newport Harbor. Sailboats bobbed in their slips. Tourists walked the waterfront, took photos, ate ice cream, and lived uncomplicated lives. She couldn't remember the last time she'd done something just because it brought her joy.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Harrison, her son: Landing in Singapore. Talk next week?
Victoria typed back: Safe travels. Love you.
He didn't respond. He rarely did anymore. At twenty two, Harrison was supposedly finding himself through a gap year of backpacking through Southeast Asia, but Victoria suspected he was mostly running away from the suffocating expectations of being an Ashford. She understood the impulse more than he knew.
Her calendar pinged. The Thames Street property walkthrough in thirty minutes. Victoria gathered her things and tried to remember why she'd fought so hard for this life. The answer, as always, was that she hadn't fought for it at all. She'd simply accepted it, the way you accept weather or gravity or any other immutable force.
And acceptance, she'd learned, was just another word for giving up.