Gut twisting, I open the desk drawer, take out the stack of papers I shoved there last night, and hand it to her.
She frowns down at the pages. “What are these?”
“Your replacement.”
The silence that follows is absolute.
Then she looks up slowly. “What do you mean?”
Yup. There’s the hurt.
Fuck. I hate myself for what I’m about to do.
But I force the words out anyway. “I need you to be here for Chloe.”
Confusion flickers over her face. “Iamhere for Chloe.”
“Except that you’re planning to flit off on a vacation in a couple of months.”
She flinches like I’ve slapped her.
And I nearly stop right there.
Nearly apologize.
Nearly tell the truth instead.
But then I think of my daughter.
Of the pictures in her memory box.
Of what happens when Finn leaves and Chloe has to lose another woman she loves.
WhenIhave to.
So I steel myself.
And I press on.
“I need someone reliable,” I say, each word more bitter than the last. “Someone who’s going to follow through. Not some irresponsible little girl who?—”
I don’t finish.
Because I don’t have to.
The damage is already done.
I can see it in her face.
In the way she goes so very still.
Like she’s heard these words before.
Like she knowsexactlyhow to survive them.
That realization should stop me, should drop me to my knees, should have me groveling.
Because I know shehasheard them before, know she’s been wounded deeply by them.
