“Pretty sureforce majeurecovers this,” he says dryly.
I flash him a sweet smile. “Oh good. We can argue contract law while we wait out the apocalypse.”
Another silence. Longer this time. The muffled rain is relentless.
I should try to sleep. That’s the smart thing to do. Curl up on my end of the futon, close my eyes, and pretend this is just another mildly inconvenient professional situation.
Except my brain has other plans.
Because sitting here in this dim room with Corin, listening to the storm, I keep thinking about New Year’s Eve. About the way he looked at me on that beach. About the way he fucked me senseless. About the pen I’d left behind when I snuck out.
And about the fact he kept that pen.
I know because I saw it in his pocket last week when he was reaching for his phone.
What does that mean?
Stop analyzing it.
Not everything is a deposition.
Except with Corin, everything feels like evidence. Every gesture, every glance, every coffee he brings me without asking.
I’m building a case in my head and I don’t even know what verdict I’m trying to reach.
Maybe he just needed an extra pen.
After all, everyone can use an extra pen, right?
“Can I ask you something?” The words are out before I can stop them.
He shifts slightly. I can’t see his face clearly in the dim light. “Okay.”
Here goes nothing.
“Why didn’t you fight for us?” My voice comes out steadier than I expected. “Five years ago. When I walked away. You just... let me go.”
The silence that follows is so heavy I can feel it pressing against my shoulders.
Maybe I shouldn’t have asked. Maybe this is one of those questions that’s better left unexamined, buried under five years of distance.
But I’m tired of not knowing.
Finally he answers. “You didn’t have to leave.”
“Not an answer,” I huff. “Why didn’t you fight? I wasn’t worth it?”
“You were wortheverything.” The words come out fierce, almost angry. “But I was bound by confidentiality agreements. Board discussions, internal memos, fiduciary duty to our fund’s limited partners and the client... even a corrupt one. If I’d told you what really happened, I would have violated every professional obligation I had. It would have ended my career and given you information you legally couldn’t act on without destroying your own.”
I process this. Turn it over in my mind like I’m examining a contract clause for hidden conditions.
Wait.
“Without destroying my own,” I repeat slowly. “Why would knowing about your client’s scandal destroymycareer?”
Unless.
Oh God.
