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Reaching down, she took my wrist, stood up, and brought me to my feet. “I love you!” she said. Holding my wrist tightly in her hand, she led me to the bedroom. I stood there, sheepish and sobbing uncontrollably.

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Thirty years her senior, and a widower when he married her; C.J. Preston, thought Annette was just being waggish and so he broke out laughing with all else at the table in the society; not knowing she was being both blunt and serious. She knew what she wanted then and it most certainly was not a watch. If she got what she wanted she'd go for a watch theatre troupe. She'd gone from brilliant project manager, to brilliant division head, and now she was a brilliant member of the senior management troupe of a strong performing multi-national "the big bloke" called her "Mrs." Yet there was more to be had and she knew it. The big guy clout have done thoroughly to take note that she kept her name when she married him; a body of things to come from the independent woman burning the candle and toiling away on a comely Friday dusk.
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