Aaron didn’t say anything, just stared at her.
“Marry someone with the assets and connections to make sure it’s in their best interest to not dissolve the partnership and to keep the terms as they were when my father was alive.” And the tears were in the back of her throat, stealing almost all her control. “Who the clients will find above reproach.”
He blinked. “Ah” was all he said.
“I’m not enough myself.” Which meant she had to go through with the plan. It was her only option, her only choice. He had to understand that.
“Ah,” he repeated with no emotion whatsoever.
“If I don’t save the business—my father loved the company.” She stood, her voice rising as if the volume could make him see and, more, absolve her. “He worked even when he was sick, probably making himself sicker, and if I let the business fall . . .”
“You kill his legacy. You’ve said this already.” Aaron folded his arms across his probably bruised ribs. “You’re fighting for the life he built. The life you enjoyed with him. Your place in it. You’ve explained this all before.” He gave an exasperated shake of his head, as if this was all somehow her fault, not the circumstances’.
It was Isabelle’s turn to cross her arms. “And you don’t approve.”
He waved a hand at her. “What I do or do not approve of doesn’t matter, does it?”
It did. More than anything. Or more than almost anything. Which was why she was being torn asunder. Stepping back, she raised her finger to argue, or more explain, make him see that if she chose a different path, chose what she wanted—what she didn’t deserve but truly desired—her father would die again. Because of her. Because she let him. “No, but—”
“What do you want?” He straightened himself and locked eyes with her.
She stared at him for a moment, but the words, all of them, the ones just at the tip of her tongue, would not come.
“I want to win,” she said finally. Because it was still true. She had to win. For her grandmother, for Pena, for her father, and for herself. She could not let them down.
“Well, you’re doing a poor job of it.” He shoved his hands in his pockets.
“I beg your pardon?” Frustrated rage rose in her breast. Could he not understand how difficult this was for her? How painful? How if she could just somehow be more, things would be different,couldbe different, and they might be having another conversation?
“You’re playing not to lose.” He squeezed his palm into a fist, pressing it against his lips, eyes flashing in the dim light. “Because if you were playing to win . . .”
“What?” She slapped her hands on her skirts. “If I was playing to win, what?”
Aaron stared at her, his voice clear and firm. “You know what. You know what you would do.”
And everything inside Isabelle crumbled. Because he was right, but she didn’t have it in her. She wasn’t brave enough or strong enough or good enough. “I—” she started, the words dying in her throat.
He shook his head in disgust. “And you can’t, can you?”
No, but every fiber inside her wanted it, wanted to scream that she wanted him. That if she had her choice, it would be him, a thousand times over. And he deserved it. Well, he deserved more than the likes of her. So much more.
But she couldn’t even give him the words. Because if she said the words, well, she would break and never be whole again. Because she would have lost. Utterly and completely.
“I’m not going to be the one to say it.” His voice was still low and calm, but with a furious, beautiful dignity behind it. He rolled back his shoulders. “I may not have much to offer—may not be much. I’m not learned or wealthy or clever or special. I’m about as ordinary as they come. But even so, I do have value. And my own dreams and wants—and they are important too. I’m not going to waste them on someone who—” Shaking his head again, he turned from her, deliberately giving her his back, which she deserved, and moved to his desk. “I really am just an errand boy to you, aren’t I?”
Why was he doing this to her? He knew she didn’t see him like that. He knew he was more. That they were more.
“No, I—I believe you are more—” And it was as if the gears in her brain could no longer move. The words stuck in her throat. “But I mean, yes, I hired you for information. Only the rest was separate.” She was shaking now. “But yes, I’m paying you—”
“I haven’t been paid.” He didn’t turn around and instead began shuffling papers.
She blinked at him and his stiff back. Would that somehow make this right? Everything in Isabelle longed to run to him, but her feet would not move. It was as if she were in a dream, as if someone else were speaking, because all her mind could do was screamNo, to no avail.
“I was waiting until after the festival, but fine.” She reached into the pocket in her sleeve and held out all its contents. “Here.” She shook it in his direction. “I’ve paid you.” Her stomach roiled, but she pressed on, hating herself and every word. “We’re even.”And now can we talk about the rest? Somehow?But those words stuck in her throat too.
He pushed it—pushed her—away without even turning around. “I don’t want your money.”
Why not? Because that was what she could give. Easily and freely. What was the point in having it if it couldn’t make everything right? Why, the one time she needed it to be enough, was it not? She placed the money on the dresser. It was his, whether he wanted it or not.
