“What about the dinner? The clients saw me lose my temper. That's all they're going to remember.”
“Maybe.” Logan's voice is thoughtful. “But they also saw Miles provoke you. The question is whether any of them will say that on record.”
“His whole team was there. They're not going to contradict him.”
“What about Rachel? You mentioned she looked uncomfortable.”
I hadn't thought of that. Rachel, who's never been outright cruel. Who winced when Miles made his comments. Who might, just might, have a conscience.
“I don't know,” I admit. “We're not close.”
“You don't need close. You need honest.” He pauses. “Look, Sin, I'm not going to lie to you. This is bad, but it's not unwinnable. You need to be strategic. Don't let emotions drive your response. Document, gather evidence, and present your case clearly.”
“And if it's not enough?”
“You fight harder.” His voice softens. “You're not alone in this, Emma. You know that, right?”
The words soothe me. I've been so focused on handling everything myself that I forgot what it feels like to have someone in my corner.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “Also for not telling Kai.”
“That's your call, not mine. But for what it's worth, I think you're wrong to keep him out of it.”
“He has enough to worry about.”
“He'd want to know.”
“I know.” I close my eyes. “I need to fight this myself. I need to know I can.”
Logan is quiet for a moment. “Yeah,” he says finally. “I get that.”
I'm exhausted. I'm scared. I have no idea if I can win this. Or at least not lose.
I open my laptop and start to write.
I type until my eyes burn. Every comment. Every look. Every moment I can remember. When I finish, it's after two in the morning, and the document is four pages long.
Four pages of evidence that I exist. That I matter. That what happened to me was real.
Outside my window, the city is dark and quiet. Indifferent to whether I win or lose.
I press my hand against the cold glass and make a promise. Not to Kai, not to my mom, but to myself.
I will not disappear quietly.
CHAPTER 30
THE CAGE
KAIDEN
Dayfive in this hospital room and I'm losing my mind.
The concussion is officially cleared. Dr. Reyes delivered the news this morning like she expected me to throw a parade. No more wake-up checks every two hours. No more penlight in my eyes. No more questions about what year it is or who's the president.
Small victories.
The ankle is another story. Six weeks in a cast, minimum. Physiotherapy after that. The ribs will heal on their own, she says, as long as I don't do anything stupid. The way she looked at me when she said it made clear she expects me to do something stupid.
