The elevator opens onto the twenty eighth floor and I head toward my office.
That’s when I hear it.
A sound that stops me dead.
Crying. Not the quiet, controlled kind that people try to hide. This is broken and raw, complete with heart-wrenching sobs. The kind of crying that arises from somewhere deep and wounded.
And it’s coming from Bree’s desk.
I round the corner and freeze.
She’s hunched over her workspace, papers scattered around her, shoulders shaking. Her hair is down, loose and messy. In the dim evening light filtering through the windows, she looks small and fragile.
I’ve never seen her like this.
It kills me.
So much for “shopping with the girls.”
“Bree?”
She startles so hard she nearly falls off her chair. Her head snaps up and I see her face. Red eyes. Tear tracks on her cheeks. Mascara smudged underneath her lashes.
“Nico.” She scrambles to wipe her face with the back of her hand. “I didn’t know you were coming. I thought I’d have the building to myself.”
“What’s wrong?” I press.
“Nothing.” She’s already trying to rebuild her composure, straightening papers that don’t need straightening. “I’m fine. Just had a moment.”
“It’s not fine.” I cross the space between us. She shrinks back slightly, and that tiny flinch sends something dark and protective coiling through me.
I crouch beside her chair so I’m at eye level. This close I can see the tremor in her hands. The way her breath keeps catching. Whatever this is, it’s not a small thing. This is something that’s been buried deep, and it’s finally clawing its way out.
“Talk to me,” I say quietly. “What happened? Who hurt you?”
“It’s really nothing.” She laughs humorlessly. “I came in to get some work done on the foundation documents. Wanted to review the university partnership section. And I found this article.”
She gestures at a printed page on her desk. From a foundation journal. Something about prosthetic research partnerships with academic institutions.
“I don’t understand,” I tell her. “What about the article upset you?”
“It’s not the article.” Her voice cracks. “It’s just. Reminded me ofsomething.”
I wait.
“From grad school,” she continues, each word dragged out like it physically hurts to speak. “My thesis advisor. Dr. Lawrence Kendrick.”
Kendrick. The name she mentioned before. Ancient history, she’d called it. The thing that made the office gossip cut so deep. The name she’d compared to me when the blackmail scandal broke.
I’ve been waiting for this. Hoping she’d trust me enough to tell me the full story. But now that the moment is here, watching her body tense and her eyes go somewhere far away and painful, I wish I could spare her from having to say more. But the only way to deal with this problem is to let it out, and air it to the world.
I don’t prod her. Instead, I remain silent.
If she’s going to speak about this, it has to be on her own terms. When she’s ready.
She’s quiet for a long moment. Then, finally, the story pours out.
“He picked me as his research assistant during my first first year,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “Told me I was the most brilliant student he’d had in years. That I was destined for great things. That he would open doors for me. I didn’t mean to get so... close to him.”
