A prickle of foreboding shot through her chest and down her left arm.

Victory Clarke was a woman with much to live for and considered herself reasonably sane and practical enough to know that the tightness in her chest was born of anxiety and not a looming heart attack as her frayed nerves would have her believe.

Strapped in the back of a cab with a driver from hell at the wheel, the ten minute ride into the downtown core was a lesson in patience and prayer as the taxi weaved through the congestion of Thursday evening traffic with all the finesse of a raging drunk on roller-blades.

By the time they hit the curb—literally jumping the damn sidewalk, narrowly missing a couple of pedestrians and a street lamp—she was a hyperventilating, frazzled wreck.

Handing the driver a twenty for a eighteen dollar fare, on boneless legs Victory slid out, smothering the urge to fall to her knees, kiss the pavement and sprawl out with giddy shrieks of 'Oh god I'm alive!'

Taking a moment to compose herself, or perhaps more to stall, she stood in the face of her greatest dream come to life.

Nestled on King Street West sat a pretty little red-bricked building, quaint with a patio behind black wrought iron fencing, cheery umbrellas and window boxes with flowers all flanked by the grandeur of the illustrious hotel she was hitched to. Victory stared up at the street-side window bearing the simple and elegantly written name: Soleil. Beautiful and new and glistening with promise.

And hers.

At barely twenty, she'd known six months of an empty belly, eating stale bread, canned goods and expired grocery shelf donations just to stay alive. Another five years of hard days, long hours and a tight belt, she'd pulled through.

She'd not only survived but succeeded.

Anxiously, she worried the keys in her hands. This was it.

Very soon, Sphinx, the newest addition to the line of Grayson Luxury Hotels, would open its doors, and her restaurant, nestled at its base, would receive the flood of Torontonians and extravagant hotel guests, welcoming them to sit at her tables and eat her food.

A fast-approaching reality that verged somewhere between exciting and terrifying.

As for her restaurant, the design and renovations were complete, the menu was finished...and she'd yet to set foot inside, to see the finalized product, aside from the emailed photographs from the hotel's architect who'd collaborated with Victory's head of design, Victor and Vanda Metcalfe, the dynamic, highly sought after husband and wife duo known as Vi-Va. She'd left the reigns in their hands, more than happy to step back and let them handle the lumps and bumps that came with restaurants and renovations while she focused on working to scrounge and save every last penny she earned.

But now it was empty, void of construction and crew, the tables set, the chairs in place, the kitchen stocked. Soleil sat ready in wait for her to finally step in and introduce herself. To begin her first rounds of prep for the soft opening and private launch party she was hosting for friends, family and media in only forty-eight hours.

"Oh, God." Suddenly dizzy—in part from having survived a near death experience—she braced the slender metal street post, and breathed long, deep and slow. It was happening, really and truly happening. Not just a dream on paper, or a stack of files on her coffee table at home, this wasn't a litany of emails, blasting back and forth as delays with the Sphinx pushed back her own timelines, adding fuel to the fires burning holes in her bank accounts.

Whatever happened now, whatever came of this, Soleil's success—or failure—fell on her slim, but capable shoulders.

She straightened to smile at the flock of people eyeing her with vague bemusement; the woman standing on the sidewalk in the midst of a hyperventilating meltdown.

Come on, Victory. Grow a spine, and get in there!

Squaring her shoulders, keeping her gait smooth and steady, her knees only threatening to give once or twice, she thrust the key into the lock, turned, and stepped inside.

The front reception foyer was flanked by a wall of rough granite, a rustic and smoky grey, behind a black, slim hostess desk. Above her, a chandelier she'd found herself up north in an antiques sale and sent to a restoration company where they'd brought the brass to life and added ropes of crystal for sparkle. Not too much, but just enough style and glamour to complement its natural heritage charm.

In the heart of the lounge sat the red lacquered bar, gleaming beneath a shower of cascading bits of blown glass that caught the overhead glow and speared rays of ethereal light like sunbeams. Warm, bright but softly elegant, turning the lounge into a real showstopper.

The sort of place swanky business executives could stop in for a late night business social, meeting or gathering, and where the trendy urbanite could sit and gossip over classic martinis and custom cocktails she'd hired a professional mixologist to conjure. Music would play in the background, something with just enough of a beat to keep the energy flowing.

Around the corner was the quiet, stately dining room with tables cutting across the open floor, the exterior flanked with private banquettes and booths of plush seating in tufted charcoal. Perfect for large groups or for a romantic couple looking to snuggle up and share a meal over champagne.

She'd kept the walls a dusky blue, like the sky towards the tail end of a sunset, with a large scale modern print in gold running down the center wall for added dimension. Dark espresso wood floors matched the deep richness of the tables swaddled in crisp white linens and dressed with vases of assorted jewel hues, from emerald to amethyst, sapphire and fuchsia, for a much needed pop of colour and luxury against the glass and chrome accents.

More crystal and more chandeliers added glitz and glamour and romance, casting fragments of light in an explosion of rainbow shards, like the sun bursting through the veil of storm clouds.

But it was the kitchen that stole her breath. And her heart.

With a dreamy sigh, Victory stood by the double doors she's just strolled through, hands clasped to her chest and tears in her eyes. The massive industrial range was a thing of sheer beauty, large enough for four chefs to work the line, and a vast stretch of stainless steel counters, high-end appliances and walk-ins soon to be stocked with locally grown fresh produce and choice cuts of Ontario meats.

Oh, she'd known what to expect—had memorized every schematic, photograph and hand-drawn sketch over the year of construction—but this was more. So much more than she could have hoped for. To stand in the heart of Soleil, and to know it was hers.

A dream she'd never thought would ever be realized and had now come true. This was her chance to seize her future, a new beginning, bright and glorious. Full of hope.

And limitless possibilities.

For the next few minutes, Victory just stood, absorbing, touching and letting everything all soak in when her phone rang in her back pocket. Fishing it out, she saw Niobe's name flash on screen and a bright bubble of laughter escaped her throat.

"Don't you have impeccable timing?"

"Always, dahling. Oh, excuse me." Over the line, Victory heard the scream of traffic, and blaring horns. "What are your plans for tonight?"

"Just a hot date with something chocolate and my TV. Why?"

"Oh, no reason." She ended on a muttered curse and imagined Niobe pressing the phone to her chest, her voice muffled as she snapped at some dude for 'blindly bumping into her'. "Sorry, what was I...ah, yes, tonight. How about dinner? Susur's place...Lee, I think. I know, I know, but I am sure your former boss could squeeze in a last minute rezo for you."

"I—" Still dazed from the shocking punch of all her dreams coming true, Victory shook her head. "You're here? But...how?"

"Caught an earlier flight. The ladies will be touching down tomorrow afternoon, as scheduled, the men to follow, thereafter, for the opening on Saturday night." Niobe explained and the rush of city noise disappeared as a door whooshed shut behind her. "Ah, that's better."

"You should have called me." Frowning, Victory picked absently at the frayed hole in the left thigh of her jeans. "I would have swung out to Pearson to get you."

"Well, sue me for wanting to surprise my bestie." She heard Niobe's voice, not just through the phone, but behind her. Swinging around, Victory shook her head with laughing disbelief as Niobe, standing in the doorway—phone in hand, trailing Louis Vuitton luggage behind—flung towards her, arms wide and smile bright, for a fierce embrace.

"Wow," Victory pulled back and swept her gaze from head to toe. "Wow, you're gorgeous, Bee. Looks like the LA life suits you."

Niobe smiled a perfect grin of white teeth, tanned skin, her long and straight curtain of jet black hair spilling over one shoulder and grazing the edge of her hip. They'd looked similar enough in their youth to pass for sisters, with their dark hair and brown eyes. But by middle school, Niobe's body had changed, sprouting curves that most women paid a fortune to have, while Victory had remained lithe and athletic.

And while she considered herself relatively easy on the eyes, when standing next to her best friend, Niobe cast a light too bright for anyone else to be seen. Even in simple denim shorts, Tory Burch flats and oversize navy cardigan with gold buttons over a white tank, she was stunning. And when she brushed a hand over the turquoise drops at her ears, a rather large diamond wrapped in platinum flashed on her left hand.

Goggling, Victory seized it. The diamond caught the light and fractured into a million, radiant pieces, so bright and breathtaking the stone seemed almost alive. "Holy shit."

"I know," she groaned, cheeks flushed a subtle pink as Niobe tried, unsuccessfully, to tug her hand free.

"How many carats?"

"Eight."

"Holy shit!"

"I know." Niobe tugged a little harder, her features softening in relief when Victory, reluctantly, let go. "I told him I didn't want anything so ostentatious, but well...you know celebrities. No such thing as too big."

"How could you throw me over for an actor? I thought I was supposed to be the love of your life?" Arms banded across her chest, Victory smiled. "It suits you, Bee. And you deserve it."

"Hush," Niobe waved it aside then smiled in a way Victory could only enviably describe as love-struck then stepped back and swept her hands out, taking in the glory of the kitchen. "This place is magnificent, Vee. I couldn't wait to see it, to see you, and I am so glad I could make the earlier flight and surprise you here." She looped an arm through hers so they could stand side by side, her cheek pillowed on Victory's shoulder.

"Yeah, about that, how did you know I'd be here?"

For a moment she opened her mouth, then hesitated, a devious gleam in brown eyes, almost as dark as her hair. "Let's just say we've been best friends since pre-school and I know you better than anyone. Now," wiggling her brows, Niobe snapped her gaze up to Victory, "I think tonight, the celebration and festivities should start early. So why don't we get dressed to the nine's and give the men of Toronto something to drool over?"

Victory held her breath, thought fondly of her couch, her blanket and the night of planned rest and relaxation that evaporated with a sigh. "Sure." She laughed when an excited Niobe launched herself into her arms.

She could forget her aching back, her sore feet and fatigue for one weekend.

What else were friends for?