Since I didn’t get a note this morning, or yesterday morning, or the morning before that, or the morning before that… I’ve decided to be proactive and leave you one.
Before you ask, no, I will not come back to you.
EMERY
P.S. You’re a bad stitch job that can’t be undone. No matter how hard I try to untangle us, we become messier than when we began.
BILE CHASED my breath.
I chugged half a bottle of water, hoping it’d make me less queasy.
Nope.
Still a quarter second from spewing my empty stomach all over the floor.
I’d felt this way since realizing Nash had kept a ledger that could exonerate my Dad for almost eight years. I’d gone through every scenario, trying to justify it, but Ceiling always cut through the bullshit.
I tried again.
“Maybe he thought Dad participated in the scandal?”
Ceiling: You are worse than a broken record. At least record players can be turned off. Let me say it slower this time—he took you to see your Dad. Repeatedly. Why would he do that if he thought your dad was guilty?
“Maybe he lost the ledger since then?”
Ceiling: Really? This again? Hun, people lose things like their virginity or their car keys. People don’t lose evidence in famous fraud cases unless it’s on purpose. Because you’re particularly dimwitted, let me spell that out for you—I’m talking about destroying evidence.
“Maybe he’s keeping it to ask me what to do with it?”
Ceiling: And in the almost eight years since he had it, has he ever once asked you what you want to do about it? On second thought, don’t answer that. You have conversations with inanimate objects. I wouldn’t put it past you to hallucinate conversations with Nash, too.
“If he’s innocent, I shouldn’t have left that letter on his door. He didn’t show up to our date, so I couldn’t even confront him about the ledger like I’d planned. Then, he sent me straight to voicemail the fifty billion times I called him. And he hasn’t brought me my lunch or notes in days.”
My emotions exceeded a single word, so I hadn’t bothered printing a new t-shirt since he left. I wore a plain t-shirt, feeling so unlike myself, it was almost embarrassing.
Office gossip placed Nash with Delilah in Singapore for a meeting.
I’d believed it… until I spotted Delilah yesterday, walking down the hallway, coffee cup in hand. When I asked her about Nash, she seemed surprised I hadn’t seen him, mentioning he’d flown in before her and she hadn’t seen him since either.
I checked the flight logs for all the local airports, then all the ones in the state. Every direct and connecting flight from Singapore in the past five days had arrived.
Ceiling: Obviously, he’s avoiding you. He deserved that note.
My feet dragged across the carpet with each step. I had carpet burns on them from pacing. Still, I sprinted to the door at the knock and swung it open.
Nash.
Relief swept through me like a current. The violent kind that pummeled your body, pulled you under, and dragged you places you didn’t want to go.
He waved a sheet of paper, looking more exhausted than I’d ever seen him. Frankly, a little smelly, too. His eyes dipped to my shirt, noticed nothing on it, and returned to my face.
A frown turned his lips down. “Before you speak, I wrote you a letter. This was before I got your letter, by the way, but I still mean every word of mine. I want to see your face when you read it.”
I traced him with my eyes, cataloging the wrinkled button-down, abandoned suit jacket, and slacks that had lost their pleating.
My lower lip folded into my mouth. Even disheveled, I wanted him.
Sighing, I yanked the letter from his fingers and scanned the first line.
You are flawed.
A hate letter?
I jerked my gaze up. “Are you serious?”
“Did you want me to send it to an editor first?” He seemed a little unhinged, the whites of his eyes peppered with red from lack of sleep. “Come on, just read it.” His hand raked through his hair. Once. “Please.”
It was his hands through his hair that undid me, but the please cemented it. I dropped my gaze back down to the letter and read.
You are flawed.
You talk to yourself.
You talk to the sky.
You know words that mean nothing to most people.
You don’t care about words that matter to everyone else.
You are harder on yourself than others.
You love the dark more than you love the light.
Your heart is too big, so you do stupid shit like give up food and shelter for a complete stranger to get a college degree.
You love small moments more than big ones.
You believe in magical words, yet you don’t believe in fate.
You are so fixated on the stars—whether or not they’re there—but to be fucking honest, the sky could be full of them or completely empty, and I’d still be looking at you.
You are flawed, but you’re also perfect. (Of course, you don’t believe in the word perfect either.)
And if I could give you anything, I wouldn’t save you (from yourself or me). You’re more than capable of doing all the saving.
I’d give you the ability to look at yourself through my eyes. You’d see that you are not the storm. You are lightning in the storm. You are what pierces through the clouds and shines brightest.
You’d see exactly why I love you.
“Nash,” I started, unsure what to say.
I struggled to find words, swallowing each emotion as they took turns throttling me. His fingers reached for the letter when all I wanted to do was grab it, frame it, and make it mine.
I released it, because the idea of it ripping in my hands devastated me.
My eyes refused to leave him. He looked like a favorite memory, one you replayed until everything reminded you of it and became déjà vu.
Nash broke the silence with an infuriating, self-satisfied smile. “Yep.”
“Excuse me?”
“Just wanted to see your face as you read this. You still love me.”
“Still?” I shook my head. “I never said I love you.”
“You did. Not with your words, but with your actions. You put so much weight in words, but sometimes, the things you do say more than the things you say. See you tomorrow, Little Tiger. Shit’s about to go down.”
I stood there, slack jawed, clutching my door. He pressed a kiss to my temple and left. His whistles echoed down the hallway.
Ceiling: See? I told you he’s not avoiding you. You shouldn’t have written him that note. You can be such an asshole sometimes.
Nash
DELILAH WALKED into the penthouse, midway through my conversation with Chantilly. I spared her a glance and returned to the psycho sitting across from me.
She tucked a red strand of hair behind her ears. “We’ve been working closely the past two weeks.”
“Yes,” I dragged out. “You, me, and four other people.”
She spread her legs, an invitation. Did she really think I didn’t remember her trying to accost me?
Her fingertips ran across her collarbone and circled the cross necklace around her neck. “I see you staring at me.”
“Only when I’m appalled at how quickly you’re able to run through millions of dollars in budget money.” I leaned back in my seat and drew up some documents, fucking exhausted with today. “Also, I won’t ask you again to close your legs. I have to sit in this office for another three hours, and your pussy smells like a fish market.”
What she didn’t understand was, I had no use for someone who nodded every time I did. I have a shadow for that, and I sure as hell liked it more than I liked her.
Delilah cleared her throat and set Rosco down. He sprinted to his four-poster bed.
Chantilly tilted her chin up, cheeks flamed red when she noticed the company for the first time. “I have to check on something, um, on another floor.”
“You do that.” I motioned her to shoo.
She darted around Delilah and slammed the door on her way out. Rosco jumped, yelped, and pawed at Delilah’s leg to be held.
Bending, she scooped him up. “You look like shit.”
Yeah, and you know why, asshole.
I’d told her through email last night, sparing her any incriminating details but enough that she got the gist.
“Shut up.” I lied, “I’m sick, you cold-hearted monster. Chantilly cornered me this morning to talk about budgets. She had a cold, Delilah. She coughed in my mouth, Delilah. I ate her cold, Delilah. I ate it. Do you know what that is like? I could demonstrate.”
“I feel like you’re saying my name a lot.”
“I feel like you’re not listening.”
We skirted around the elephant of the day, because I’d been fucking held in federal custody for the maximum forty-eight hours allowed by North Carolina law. If I had a working phone, I would have called Delilah to get me the fuck out of there.
I hadn’t.
So, I sat through Brandon’s incessant questions without speaking a word.
“Did you know about the Winthrop Scandal before the F.B.I. and S.E.C. announced our formal investigation?”
“What is your involvement with Virginia Winthrop, Balthazar Van Doren, and Eric Cartwright?”
“We spotted you at Balthazar and Virginia’s engagement dinner. Her daughter was your date. Would you say you are close with her? Did she know about the Winthrop Scandal before it began?”
“We don’t have to be after you, Nash. Strike a deal with us. What do you say?”
If it were just me, I could deal with the pressure from the S.E.C. Fika had done a good job of covering my tracks, and insider trading cases could be difficult to prove. But the fucker went after Ma and Emery.
Instinct urged me to fight with my fists, but that had never worked out well in the past. Good thing I had something better than a fist. A Harvard-educated lawyer on payroll.
I spit it out, “Delilah, I need a favor.”
“How desperate are you for it?”
Sighing, I closed my laptop and clasped my fingers together. “What do you want?”
“Hmm…” She tapped a fingertip to her lip. “Tell me how desperate you are first.”
I stared at her until she fidgeted under my attention. Even then, she didn’t relent.
“Desperate,” I seethed, knowing she’d toy with me as revenge.
I deserved it for making her do all the work on Singapore for nothing. Didn’t mean I had to enjoy it.
A smile consumed her face. She looked like the less green offspring of the Grinch. “I want you to kiss Rosco on the lips and tell him you’re sorry for being an insufferable asshole.” She held him out to me. “Also, tell him you think he’s cute.”
I didn’t budge. “I’m not doing that.”
“You can do the favor yourself.” She made a show of shrugging and shooting me a sympathetic grimace. “I hear self-care is all the rage these days.”
“You’re an ass, and not a nice one.” I transferred Rosco to my grip, brought the rat up to my face, stared it in its beady fucking eyes, and said, “You look like someone shaved a teletubby baby and glued a used wig to its head”—Delilah coughed—“and I guess you’re cute. Sorry, dude.”
I leaned forward, wondering if I’d entered a different dimension disguised as hell. The things I did for Emery Winthrop. Goddamn. As if he had a sixth sense, Rosco leaned forward, too.
And then He. Bit. Me.
On the nose.
For a tiny thing, he had razor-sharp teeth. Blood trickled down my nostrils. I released the rat, letting him fall to my lap and hop off. He ran to his bed, circled the doggy blanket, and curled into a ball.
When I stared at him, he barked. Twice.
I gave him the finger and focused on Delilah. “Now that it’s established your rabies-ridden dog and I dislike each other, can we move the fuck on?”
She yanked a few tissues from her desk and tossed them to me, not hiding her amusement in the slightest. “I know I’m supposed to look serious right now, but I’m not worried at all. Frankly, the worst part is that you kept this from me all these years. I could have helped you out earlier.”
I read between the lines and saw her question, but I ignored it. Instead, I broke everything down for her, from stealing the ledger to burning it to building this company off money obtained through insider trading.
Delilah sighed, sat at her desk, and booted her laptop. “I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”
“The bad news.”
“Of course, you do,” she muttered, clicking a few times with her mouse. “The maximum sentence for insider trading is twenty years.”
“I know. I have Google.”
She ignored me. “The good news is, the average sentence actually given is just over one year, usually in a cushy country-club facility if you’re rich enough. The time served is often half of that on good behavior. So, about six months we’re dealing with.”
“I can do six months.”
“You probably won’t have to.” She shut her laptop and peered at me. “I think you can get the six months waived if you agree to testify and pay the maximum fine, which is five-million dollars.”
Worth every cent if it got Brandon off Emery and Ma’s backs.
“Done.”
She pulled out her phone and penned a text as she spoke, “I have a friend who specializes in fraud cases. She can attend the meeting with you as your lawyer. I can be there if you want.”
“I do,” I cut in.
Her soft smile made me roll my eyes. “For moral support?”
“For catering. People are less inclined to lash out when fed.”
“Sure,” she dragged out. The smile never left her face. “Let’s go with that excuse. We can outline terms of agreements before the meeting, including confidentiality, so the company doesn’t get bad press.”
“How are you so sure I’ll get off?”
“You’re really looking at six months max. That’s your negotiating point, so the S.E.C. has little to lose and a lot to gain. Besides the logistics, Brandon is motivated and ambitious. He’s looking to go places bigger than the S.E.C. He won’t do that arresting North Carolina’s golden boy, but he will do that with the testimony of an anonymous whistleblower.”
“I’ll make that fucker’s career,” I muttered.
I’d pay a five-million-dollar fine.
Brandon Vu would get the career bust of a lifetime.
I should have cared more, but I didn’t.
He was just another step to getting Emery back.
