"I'm aware that she’s the issue here, Michael. What I don’t understand is why."
I close my eyes.
I’m frustrated and tired, but I know Rosalie is just trying to understand.
There is no world I ever expected to have to deal with Blaire again. Having her physically in my space, in my building, in my conference room — the reactions my body has been having, the rage that keeps cresting is spiraling me into a dark episode; I’m fighting like hell to stay close to the surface. Tears well and spill over before I can regain any semblance of composure.
When I open my eyes, I see the panic on Rosalie’s face.
"No. I mean, it’s Blaire Alexander. From high school." I sob out every word, feeling fucking pathetic.
The blood drains from her face. I watch her actively swallow down her rage, placing both palms flat on my desk as she slowly rises to her feet.
"Blaire fucking Alexander," she snaps, "is Blaire Monroe?"
"Yes."
"She's been in this building for three days."
"Yes."
"And you're just telling me this now." It isn't a question.
"Rose—"
"Why the hell didn't you lead with that?" She's on her feet before the sentence finishes, and I know that walk, I have seen that walk, it is the walk of a woman who has made a decision and is executing it at speed, and she is headed directly for the conference room.
I move faster.
I catch her in three strides, get my arms around her waist from behind, and physically lift her off the ground. She is five-four and furious and cycling her legs like it'll help, which it does not.
"Put me down!"
"Absolutely not."
"I am your attorney—"
"You're also sixty pounds soaking wet. Put your legs down—"
"She has a lot of nerve walking into this building after what she did to you. I have things to say—"
"Uh. Is everything alright, Mr. Sullivan?"
Claudia is standing in the hallway with her jaw on the floor, watching me carry Rosalie back toward my office like a very expensive, very angry football.
"Everything's fine." I wave with the hand not currently securing my sister under my arm. "Perfectly fine."
Claudia does not look like she finds this perfectly fine.
I carry Rosalie back into the office, set her down in the chair, and crouch in front of it with my hands on the armrests so she can't get up without going through me.
"Rose." I hold her gaze.
Her jaw is set, arms folded across her chest. She finally meets my eyes.
"You need to let me go in there and speak with her, Michael. We'll hire someone else. You can't put yourself through—"
"She doesn't know who I am," I say, cutting her off.
