She reaches out.
I flinch back.
She redirects her hand, placing her palm flat against the center of my chest, right over my heart. The heat of her hand burns through the thin, wrinkled fabric of my shirt. Her fingers splay across my pectoral, firm and possessive. I can feel the thud-thud-thud of my heart beneath her palm, a frantic, irregular beatshe undoubtedly misinterprets as desire. It isn’t. It’s the rhythm of a man trapped in a burning building.
“Feel that,” she whispers. “That’s life, Ross. Us. That’s what happens when you stop trying to be the perfect husband to a woman who doesn’t understand the pressure you’re under.”
I glare down at her hand. Her manicure, perfect, blood-red tips, could draw blood. They’re nothing like Margot’s. I think of Margot’s hands: the way they look when she plates lamb, the way she gripped the steering wheel as she drove away from me.
“Stop,” I try to say, but the word is swallowed by the sudden roar of the HVAC system overhead. The ventilation hums with a mechanical violence, a white noise that drowns out the world. The office sounds, the distant, rhythmic ringing of a phone in the cubicle farm, the low chatter of the morning staff, vanish. There is only the blue light, the smell of vanilla, and the predatory heat of the woman leaning over me.
She moves her hand higher, her thumb grazing the knot of my tie. She starts to pull, a gentle but insistent tug that brings my head forward, closer to hers.
“Let go, Ross,” she murmurs. Her lips part, showing a glimpse of white teeth. “For once.”
Her face draws closer. So close I can see the individual lashes of her eyes, the slight shimmer of her lip gloss, the tiny pore of a scar on her chin.
Time seems to speed up, making my movements ineffective. I’m living in slow motion, but she’s on fast forward.
A visceral wave of nausea almost overcomes me. My stomach twists into a hard knot of guilt and disgust.
This is my penance.
This is what I’ve built. By prioritizing the firm, by letting Tabitha into the inner sanctum of my professional life, I’ve invited her into the ruins of my personal one.
I’m thinking about the “nuclear solution.” I’m thinking about the way Chan looked at me.
Resign.
I should have done it already. I should have walked into Arthur’s office and burned it all down.
Tabitha’s breath is warm against my mouth now. Her eyes are closing, her head tilting to the side. She is a second away from pressing her lips against mine. One second away from making the mistake permanent.
My hands grip the armrests of my Aeron chair so hard the plastic groans. Sweat slicks my palms, sending tremors through my biceps. I am a machine trying to override its own programming.
In the corner of my vision, the Dubai project still glows on the monitor. The silver thorn. It looks sharp. It looks like it’s waiting to draw blood.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
She leans in the final inch. Her eyes are shut tight. She’s waiting for the impact.
And for the first time in my life, I realize some buildings aren’t meant to be saved. Some structures are so fundamentally compromised that the only moral act is to let them collapse.
I finally find my voice, but it’s not for her.
“No. I’m done,” I say.
She pauses, her lips brushing the corner of mine. She stays there, frozen in the near-kiss, her breath hitching. “What?”
“I said,” I repeat, my voice rising, “Get away from me. I’m done. With this conversation. With you. And with Arthur.”
I snare her wrist. There is no gentleness in the grip. I pry her hand from my chest, feeling the desperate tension in her tendons before she finally goes slack. I shove my chair backward. The wheels scream against the floor, violently reclaiming the space she’s been trying to erase.
She stumbles back, her eyes snapping open, a flash of shock followed by cold, sharp anger crossing her features.
“Ross,”
“Get out.” I stand, and for the first time in forty-eight hours, I feel the full height of my own frame. “Unlock the door and get out of my office.”
