“I destroyed it,” he says, taking a small, tentative step forward. Wren immediately moves to block him, her hand going to the doorframe to bar the path. “I realized Chan was right, because I don’t want the firm. I don’t want the reputation. I want the man I was before I forgot how to look at you. But most importantly, I wantyou.”
Memories of Valentine’s night flash through my mind with strobe-light intensity: the congealed lamb, the dying candles, the weight of him on top of me, the friction of the silk, and then, the name. The name that turned my bedroom into a crime scene.
Goodnight, Tabitha.
The name is a ghost in the hallway, standing right there between the three of us.
How could I forget?
“You can’t quit your way out of this, Ross,” I tell him. I wrap my arms around myself, pulling the borrowed robe tighter. The microfiber feels like sandpaper now. “You let her take up so much space in your head, there was no room left for me.”
“I know,” he gasps. “I know I’m a wreck. I know I’m the villain in this version of the story. But I’m here. I’m finally, actually here, and I have nothing left but you. I have no job. I have no office. I have nothing to hide.”
Wren turns her head slightly, her profile sharp against the hallway light. There’s skepticism in the set of her jaw. She wants me to tell him to go. She wants me to let her finish the call to the police and watch them drag this broken architect out of her entryway.
I stare at Ross, the gray skin, the bloodshot eyes, the absolute destruction of the man I loved.
I take a deep breath.
“Let him talk, Wren,” I say softly.
She whips around to look at me, eyes wide with betrayal. “Margot, you can’t be serious. Look at him. He’s doing the same thing he always does, making his crisis your problem.”
“I know,” I say. And I do. I see the manipulation, whether conscious or not. I see the drama of his behavior. But I’m also gazing at the man who once redesigned my kitchen to make me smile. “Five minutes. Let him have his five minutes, and then he leaves. I need to hear the words.”
Wren stares at me for a long, agonizing beat. I can feel her protective energy vibrating through her arm, a physical rejection of the man standing in her doorway. Then, slowly, she lets out a sharp, hissing sound between her teeth and steps aside.
She doesn’t go far. She retreats, but her eyes never leave him. Staying in the periphery, she’s ready to spring at the first sign of a breach.
The doorway is now open. The space between us is clear.
Ross stands there, his silhouette framed by the porch light. He looks smaller than he did a minute ago. More fragile. Finally, he steps across the threshold.
The room feels tighter than ever. The smell of him, the office, the failure, is overwhelming.
“Five minutes,” I say, and I don’t move an inch to welcome him. “The clock is running.”
“Margot,” he breathes.
I hate myself for the way my heart still stutters when he says my name.
Chapter 11
Margot
I’ve spent five years watching this man command boardrooms. But the man in Wren’s house looks like he was dragged out of wreckage.
He doesn’t reach for my hand. He doesn’t try to touch me. He simply opens his briefcase with trembling hands, pulls out a thick manila envelope, and holds it out.
“Open it.”
I step forward, my bare feet on the hardwood. I take the envelope. Inside is a stack of papers on the mockingly elegant letterhead of Keane & Associates.
Official Resignation. Effective immediately.
“The proof,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I torched the career I spent years building because I never want to go back.”
“You’re six months from partnership. You’ve sacrificed everything for this.”
