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I turn to face him more fully. “Think of it like a juicy Netflix show, something you binge. When you have a long day, you just want to turn off your brain. It’s healthy. Especially if you’re an anxious person or working a high-pressure job, you just want to escape for an hour or two. Take my friend Luz, for example. She’s an ER nurse, and she loves romance novels. She can fully immerse herself in the story after a day of saving lives.”
“And you provide that?” Jonah looks skeptical, but maybe understanding? He’s not arguing with me at least. Maybe I’m getting to him.
“I do. I try to. What’s the harm in reading something frivolous?”
“Unless there’s real harm to the subjects,” he says bleakly. His jaw flexes, and he looks away. My cheeks heat, and guilt flares.
I open my mouth to apologize, but before I can speak, we’re pulling to a stop in front of an ornate building with columns and glowing lights. When we get to the front, Jonah says, “We’re a little late. Everyone is here already.”
He motions for me to precede him and we ascend a sweeping staircase, his shoes tapping on the marble. The sound of a crowd grows as we approach the double doors.
“I thought you said—” Before I can finish the sentence, we’re at the top of the landing, and the doors are being flung open. A sea of people is displayed before us, and our late arrival means every one of them is staring at us. At me. They glitter like peacocks, clad in jewel-toned gowns and tuxes. I’m wearing my least favorite flats and a blue sheath dress with sweat stains.
Jonah’s face is set in vicious satisfaction. He planned this. My stomach bottoms out. This is my punishment. Being humiliated in front of all of his friends. I nearly laugh at the irony. It’s the perfect torture.
My mouth is dry and my pulse is racing. I back slowly into Jonah, who grabs my arm and growls, “Come on, Thompson.” A small laugh goes up from the crowd, and my vision blurs.
It’s happening again. The whispers. The stares. I suck in air, but it’s not enough.
“Thompson.”
I shake my head. He’ll make me go down there, and it will be awful. Like being torn apart by hyenas. Like it was every time with Eric. But the last time—I squeeze my eyes shut like it will make this go away. The last time was the worst.
“I can’t do this,” I gasp out, before I whirl and run for the hall. I stumble blindly down the stairs. Not that way. I can’t bear for anyone to see. I turn right and push open an unmarked door into a quiet room. I lock it with shaking hands and lean against the wall, sides heaving.
Not thirty seconds later, someone tries the handle, and I hear, “Thompson. Open this fucking door.”
20
Jonah
“Go away.” Her voice is shaky and something ugly twists in my stomach.
“I will fire you if you don’t open this door right now.”
The handle rattles and then Callie’s shocked face appears. I push into the room, a sitting room at the Davenport Club, and turn on her. The fire in me drains when I take her in. Disheveled hair, red face, glassy eyes.
“Please leave,” she says. Her chest is heaving.
“Are you having a panic attack?”
“I don’t—” She presses a hand to her chest, sucks in a gasping breath. “I don’t know.”
Something in me cracks at that. I can punish her later, but right now, she’s so small and diminished and I just want that Callie fire back in her eyes.
I step toward her and she backs against the wall. “Go away. Please, Jonah.” My first name slips out in her panic as she sucks in another breath. “I can’t. You win, okay? You win. Fire me. I can’t—”
You did this. You asshole.
In a swift movement, I haul her against me, my arms banding around her back, pressing her face to my chest. She pushes against me but I murmur, “Shh. Let me help you. My sister used to have panic attacks. I know what to do.”
She finally relaxes and lets me sweep firm strokes over her back. “Breathe.” Her inhale is shuddery and pain lances through me. You failed her. She’s yours and you failed her. I shake the thought away. She’s not mine. She’s an employee. But my brain won’t rest. You claimed her. Like Miles and Jason and Theo. You were supposed to protect her.
“What happened?” I ask softly. Her breathing is evening out, but it hitches at my question.
“My ex,” she finally says. “He was a minor New York celebrity. An influencer. Stupid. Anyways, we’d go to parties and he’d always talk down to me. He let his friends be awful to me. I never knew how to dress, how to talk. And he preferred it that way. He liked having power over me.”
Just like me. Fuck. “He was an asshole,” I say. My voice comes out gravelly.
