That smashes into me with all the gentleness of a train barreling down the tracks. “I told her I wouldn’t walk away—not ever again.”
And I won’t.
We’ve hardly begun to fix what’s wrong between us, but I can at least give her that much.
He sighs again, the sound rattling through the phone’s speaker. “You’re not seeing her clearly.”
“I’m not seeing that she’s been through hell and survived far too much?” I growl. “I fucking see it. I fucking hate it. But I also know she’s been alone far too much in her life. She needs people around her, needs to know she’s part of something, that people will have her back.”
“With all due respect, she doesn’t know anyone.”
“She knows you.”
“Barely.”
“And Jace.”
“And where were we when she was going through hell?”
“That’s not on you guys.”
A pause. “Maybe you’re right,” he says quietly. “Because it’s on you.”
Another collision, another truth slamming into me.
“Yes, it is.” I force myself to take a deep breath. “And I’m glad that as fucked up as the last five years have been, you’re still looking out for her, still trying to do what’s best for her. I appreciate that. Sheneedsthat. But with all due respect, the last time I listened to you, I lost her for half a decade.”
He lets the silence sit between us for long enough that a bolt of pain shoots through my jaw, it’s ground together so tightly.
“Fine,” he mutters. “I’ll pass on information for trauma therapists. Make sure she sees one.”
I open my mouth to reply, but he’s already hung up.
“Christ,” I mutter, scrubbing my hands over my face.
But even as I’m sitting in that, I hear the chime on my computer, know that my next call has started.
And again I’m supposed to somehow focus on work—in this case on earnings reports and where to put our R&D dollars—when the woman I love is hurting.
In danger.
With nothing resolved between us.
When a man I respect says I should stay away from her.
“Fuck,” I whisper, but when there’s a knock on the door and my assistant, Todd, pops his head in, I nod. “I’m hopping on.”
He nods, disappears just as quickly.
As promised, I join the call.
I do it listening more than talking.
And when I do talk it’s on topic and it’s effective…even though half my brain is still thinking about Pascal’s words.
The thought lingers as I trudge my way through the rest of my calls and on the drive home.
It nips at my heels as I take the elevator up, unlock the front door, all under the watchful eyes of Pascal’s security team—most of whom I can’t see, but canfeelwatching me.
