My heart begins to pound so hard I can feel it banging against my rib cage. I try to keep my breathing in check, not wanting to give Jeffrey the satisfaction of seeing me squirm.
“He must have just set it up and forgotten about it,” I say more to myself than Jeffrey.
“Mmmmmm.” He squints at the screen. “Nope... he’s been pretty active since he first created the account.”
I hear the sound of a door clicking open. Jeffrey glances up briefly as Bancroft strides over to us.
“How ‘active’?” I manage to get out in a tight tone, ignoring Bancroft’s intensifying stare.
“Give me a second. His account has some extra permission barriers on it, which is unusual for this subscription level.”
“Do you have authority to get through them?” I ask, leaning toward the screen and trying to keep my tone steady.
“Grace,” Bancroft says in a soft tone over the computer screens separating us; his voice barely registers over the ringing in my ears.
“Hmm, he’s been active almost daily for about four years, aaaaand...” Jeffrey drags out the word as he scrolls down further. “... his account has been flagged multiple times during that time for sending lewd images.”
Goose bumps erupt across every inch of my skin as I stare at the lines and lines and lines of documented logins from William’s account. The ringing intensifies, a wind-up monkey banging cymbals relentlessly between my ears.
“Wait.” Looking up from his screen at Bancroft: “Isn’t this the same guyyouhad me look up? Couldn’t you have just sent heryourfile?”
The ringing stops suddenly, replaced by a deafening silence.
I turn slowly to find Bancroft, grim and stone-faced, standing a few paces away. He ignores Jeffrey’s questions and fixes his creased gaze on my prickling eyes.
“We should talk, privately.” He stalks off, hands in his pockets.
We enter his office in complete silence and he gestures for me to sit on the burgundy leather Chesterfield sofa tucked into a corner. That’s right, he not only has his own office, but an office large enough to have specific areas for business and more casual conversation.
The whole space gives off a reserved but sensual vibe that makes total sense for his brand persona. The walls are lined with matte-black cupboards and shelving. The floor is a dark brown wood, part covered with a brown and black printed rug that complements his modern wooden desk. If this room was wearable, it would be a black cashmere turtleneck. Professional but not taking itself too seriously, and very comfortable. I want to question why he used to spend so much time at my cramped, crumb-covered desk when we could have been in here, but his cool voice brings me back to the bitter present.
“Do you want a drink?” he asks, taking a seat next to me. He stares at my arm and flexes his hand, then tucks it under his own leg.
“I want you to show me whatever it is that Jeffrey was talking about,” I say, eyes fixed resolutely on the chasmic dark walls.
It feels as if I’m having an out-of-body experience but my body is also being slowly crushed by a steamroller. I’m somehow not present yet hyperaware of every speck of dust floating in the streams of harsh sunlight piercing the windows.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea.” His voice softens to melting butter.
My head turns toward him, trying to gauge how bad it’s going to sting. His expression is dancing back and forth through guilt, pity and fear all while wearing a half-functioning mask of neutrality. My face creases asI try to remain calm despite the clarifying fury rising to the surface.
“I don’t think you’re in a position to decide what is or isn’t a good idea right now,” I snap. “Show. Me,” I repeat slowly, theor elsesilent, but heavily implied.
His pupils constrict: lasers building with energy before unleashing utter destruction.
He sighs and clears his throat, standing up and smoothing his hands down his navy trousers. His shoulders are stiff as he pulls out a light brown folder from a tall gunmetal filing cabinet in the corner of the room. He drops it down on the glass coffee table in front of me and puts his hands in his pockets, jaw ticking as he nods to the folder. “Everything you want to know is in there.”
I stare at the Folder of Doom and then flick my eyes back up to his face. His mouth is tight, and his eyebrows creased in the middle. Maybe if I hadn’t just received a slew of messages from William about why breaking upwasn’t the best thing for either of us, I could have let this go. Could have picked up the folder, thrown it in the nearest shredder and lit the pieces up into ash. I know it would probably be better for my mental health in the long run, but that doesn’t stop my hand from flicking open the elastic clasp and letting the papers fall out across the table.
Messages, pictures and arrangements spread out over the table like photographs from a crime scene. A timeline of betrayal and deceit laid out over almost our entire relationship. Bancroft silently perches against hisdesk staring at his hands. The pages blur in my foggy brain into meaningless letters and skin until they start to resemble a word salad with breasts, lips and dick pics sprinkled on as dressing.
Eventually, my eyes snag on a timestamp: three days before he proposed. I rip the page from the table.
Laura: Last night was great x
William: Next week will be even better ;) x
The page drops from my shaking hand onto the floor. Bancroft and I watch it fall; then we stand in sync to meet each other. All I can hear is the giant gong banging against my brain.
