He looks up. “So… you don’t trust your wife’s judgment.”
“I do,” I say quickly. “It’s just, she has some trauma around that stuff. She wasn’t thinking objectively.”
“And your allegiance to this Zeke,” he says evenly, “was more important than her feelings.”
My mouth drops open. “It’s not that simple.”
Dr. Bart lifts a hand, calm as ever. “Okay,” he says, “let me give you a scenario. A woman asks her husband to bring homebroccoli. He brings home cabbage. She gets angry and leaves him. Why do you think she did that?”
I rub the back of my neck. “I guess… because he didn’t listen?”
Dr. Bart nods slowly. “Exactly. Sometimes we’re so busy looking for cues and hidden meanings that we don’t actuallyhearwhat’s being said. Your wife told you Zeke was not to be trusted. And what did you do?”
I let out a quiet breath. “…I didn’t listen.”
“Right,” he says gently, flipping to a fresh page in his notebook. “Now, about the money.”
God. The way this man talks, it makes me feel like I’m back in high school, sitting in my guidance counsellor’s cramped office while he calmly dismantled my grand plans. Back then, he told me I shouldn’t put all my eggs in a sports bucket.
He was right.
And the really annoying thing?
So is Bart.
After my appointment, I feeldrained. Like someone scooped out everything inside me and left just the shell.
I’m replying to Brooke’s text, half-reading my own words, when my phone starts to buzz with an incoming call.
“Hello?” I answer, still distracted.
“Is this Mr. Matthew Basen?” a woman’s voice asks.
“Yes,” I say, confused.
“This is Bethany from Marx Corp.”
I stop walking dead in the middle of the sidewalk. A guy behind me slams into my shoulder and mutters, “Asshole,” before striding past.
“Excuseyoutoo,” I mumble, then start walking again. “Sorry,” I say to the woman.
My heart beats a little faster, though. If they were firing me, it would’ve been an email. That’s how corporate works. Right?
She clears her throat. “Would you be available for a meeting tomorrow at nine at the New York headquarters?”
I frown, more confused. “Uh… yes. What’s this about?”
“It’s regarding Marx Airline. Please arrive early to get through security.”
And then,click.Just like that, she hangs up.
I slow down, my mind scrambling to make sense of it. Why would they call me back in after what happened?
By the time I reach the apartment, I’m still walking in a daze, replaying every word of that call, trying to convince myself it’s not what itcouldbe.
I hang my coat up on the hook, the sound of the door clicking into place snapping me out of my fog. That’s when it hits me.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath. Penny.
