I see her seeingme. Not Mr. Rossi. The man who reads thank you letters from children and lets his face go soft with something that might be hope or grief or both.
The vulnerability is intolerable.
I slam the walls back up so hard I can feel them snap into place. My expression goes cold. The same face I use in hostile board meetings and contract negotiations.
She actually flinches.
Then looks away.
Good.
Better she learns now that whatever she thinks she saw, it’s not real.
I don’t do vulnerability. I don’t do softness. I built my entire life around making sure no one ever sees behind the prosthetic personality I wear.
She goes back to her computer. I go back to my files.
The letter sits on my desk between us.
I should put it away.
Instead I read it one more time.
Your scar is cool. Mine is too now.
Yeah. Except mine isn’t cool.
It’s a reminder that the people who were supposed to protect me couldn’t.
That the only person I can rely on is myself.
Best to keep the walls up.
6
Bree
Ishould’ve gone home three hours ago.
Actually, scratch that.
I should’ve gone home at five like a normal person with a normal boss who doesn’t spring last-minute revisions on critical board reports at 4:30 PM with a casual “I need this by morning, Ms. Dawson” like he’s asking me to fetch his dry cleaning.
But no.
Here I am at 9 PM, squinting at my computer screen, trying to fix whatever unspecified problems His Royal Iciness found with my formatting.
Myformatting. Like I’m the one who wrote this thing. I just typed it up and made it look pretty. But apparently the margins are “aggressive” and the font makes him “uncomfortable.”
The font.
Makes him.
Uncomfortable.
I don’t even know what that means. How does Calibri inspire discomfort? It’s literally designed to be the least offensive font in existence.
I rub my eyes and glance at the clock again.
