Page 141 of Boardroom Mask

No one has ever looked at me like this. I can’t believe I’m throwing it all away. I wonder again, for the millionth, billionth, trillionth time, if I’m doing the right thing.

When it’s done, he pulls me against his side, both of us sweaty, heaving, and glistening with each other’s juices, and he starts to talk. He paints a picture so vivid I feel like I could step right into it.

He talks about a house upstate. Nothing crazy, he promises. Simple stone and wood, set back from the road, with a porch that wraps around the whole thing. A kitchen big enough to cook in. Candles on every surface and YouTube chicken every night, forever. A yard with old trees and maybe a garden if I want one. He talks about mornings where neither of us has anywhere to be. Coffee on that porch. Snow in winter. He talks about a dog. He’s never had one but always wanted one, and he wants one with me especially.

He talks about a wedding. A white dress, somewhere sunny and warm, no one else but us. Who needs others? Slow dancing, cakefrosting in a kiss, running straight into the ocean once the vows are exchanged, still dressed in our finest. A veil floating in gentle waves.

He talks, worst of all, about a baby. How he’d dote, and dote, and dote, and dote. A squalling, bright-eyed bundle of blankets on a mother’s tired chest. A chubby wrist with a hospital bracelet. Ours. Ours. Ours. Ours. Ours.

I listen and I can’t help but mournfully weigh the distance between the woman he’s describing and the woman he’s actually holding. Ihada child and I gave her away. Ihavea love and I’m about to do the same thing to that. I ruin things because I myself was ruined. I know no other way.

Maybe once upon a time, he made me believe that I could get past the scars that shape me, but I don’t believe that fantasy anymore. There’s no happy-ever-after here. There’s onlyAn Exclusive Investigation by Jillian Pierce,and a window that stays closed, and a long, solitary life to follow.

That’s all there’s ever been. Anything else was simply delusion.

Little by little, the spaces between his sentences grow. He pulls me closer and mumbles something into my hair, and then his breathing goes deep and even. Just like that, he’s out cold. He sleeps so easily now. He didn’t used to. I remember the first night he stayed over, how he jerked awake over and over before dawn, hand already reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there. Now, he just holds on to me and drops.

I wait. Five minutes. Ten. His arm gets heavier as sleep takes him all the way down.

When I’m sure he’s out, I lift his arm off my waist, one centimeter at a time, and set it down on the warm sheet where my body was. He groans but doesn’t stir.

My phone is on the nightstand. I pick it up, open the drafts folder, and there it is. The email to Doug. Subject line, attachment, everything.

My thumb hovers for a long, long time.

Then I press Send.

The littlewhooshas it vanishes into the ether, final and irretrievable, is the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.

58

KIR

“Ooh, baby, don’t you know I suffer? / Ooh, baby, can’t you hear me moan? / You caught me under false pretenses / How long before you let me go?”

— “Supermassive Black Hole” by Muse

For three days, the world stays perfect. Jillian and I sleep and fuck like rabid animals and sleep some more. We work separately during the days and come home at night to each other, and every time I see her face for the first time after hours apart, I wonder if perhaps I’m not as broken as I always thought I was.

I check in with Mat on Thursday afternoon. The board transition is proceeding far smoother than anyone expected. Lukas hasn’t contested the vote or filed any legal challenge. Turns out that’s because no one has seen hide nor hair of Lukas since the board vote. He and Rae vanished into thin air. I’m too love-drunk to give a fuck.

On Friday morning, I’m walking into the office late when my assistant, Madison, runs up to me. “Mr. Lazarev? I have RichardThornton on line one. Editor-in-chief of theNew York Times. He says it’s urgent.”

I shrug. “Sure. Put him through.”

These newspaper types and their “urgency.” The entire Lazarev Global PR team has been working around the clock to spin the news of Lukas’s “departure” in a positive light. They do good work, so I’m not overly concerned about it. Times are changing around here. It’s long overdue.

I step into my office and drop into my chair, feet kicked up on my desk. The light for Line 1 is flashing on my desk phone. I pick it up.

“Kir,” Thornton says. “Thanks for taking my call.”

“Of course, Rick. Always a pleasure.” I reach for the espresso Madison left on my desk. “What can I do for you?”

There’s a pause. Not a long one, but long enough that I stop halfway to the coffee.

“I’m calling as a friend,” Thornton warns. “Not as an editor. I want to be clear about that upfront.”

I pull my feet off the desk. Something in his tone is starting to unsettle me. “Okay. Sure. I’m listening.”