“I see,” he says as if he doesn’t quite believe me.
He shouldn’t. Mia’s gone cold, silent. Achingly polite.
She’s not punishing me for anything I did. She’s learning to live with the decision I made.
For both of us.
The kind of decision you make before the roar of the crowd dies down—and you realize she’s still standing there alone.
I rub my hand over my beard. “What does the attorney need?”
Grayson lets out a low sigh. “Ideally, proof of abuse, coercion, forced medication, or a credible third-party witness.”
“Shouldn’t the lawyers talk to her directly?”
“The way the law reads, she needs a judge to sign off on legal counsel.”
“Are you serious?” I grimace. “She sounds like a slave.”
“But doesshethink she is? That’s what matters. That’s what I need you to sort out.”
“Okay,” I murmur, though I already know it’s too late. What happened when I walked out the other day. When I turned my back on her at her most vulnerable moment… I’m not sure it can be repaired.
I thought it was restraint. The right thing to do. But as her frigid voice, terse demeanor, and far-off gaze attest, everything has changed.
I should tell Grayson this, admit where I went wrong. But restraint was easier than choosing her.
Yet, despite everything, something about Mia won’t let me walk away. Even if she’s already left me far behind.
Inside the cabin, she sits at the counter, typing into her laptop. A Word document is pulled up, and her fingers fly.
“You take up writing since the last time I was here?”
Her mouth is a frown of concentration. She doesn’t answer, face cold and composed. I feel some of her ice lodge in the warm spot where my heart should be.
“So, I get the silent treatment now?”
Her fingers freeze, mint eyes snapping to my face. “What?” She asks too innocently, like we’re strangers.
“You heard me.”
She shrugs, eyes gliding back to the screen. “Didn’t think you wanted to talk anymore. On duty permanently, remember?”
I snort, ready to eat my own words. My restraint has taught her not to rely on me. My seeming indifference transformed her need into distance. I hate myself for it.
“Mia…”
“What?” God, she wears indifference cold.
“The not talking to me. The medication. The typing. What are you planning?” I put my hands on my hips, forehead creasing.
“Does it matter to you?”
“You know me better than that.”
Her eyes narrow, fire glinting behind the cool green. “I know you want to keep things professional. I’m helping you now.”
“Professional doesn’t mean silence … or putting up walls,” I counter, annoyed by how helpless this conversation makes me feel.
