And then there’s the other aspect, the one that scares me even more.
I don’t want Matvei dead. I don’t want him gone.
I wanthim.
Which is exactly why I need to walk away.
A nurse steps out and looks around the waiting room. She sees me and starts her walk over. For a second, I wonder how she knows I’m the one she wants. Then I remember that I’m the only person in here covered head to toe in someone else’s blood. Kind of a dead giveaway.
I stand up too fast. My knee buckles, then catches.
“You’re with the gentleman who came in with the stab wound?” she inquires.
“Yes. Yeah. That’s me. Is he?—?”
“He’s going to be fine.”
It takes everything I have not to sag to the floor in gratitude.
“The knife missed anything vital,” she goes on. “He’s lost a lot of blood, but we’re replacing it. He’ll need to stay overnight, maybe two. But he’ll live.”
He’ll live.Two words. Such small, stupid, essential words.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
She nods, already turning to go. “Someone will come get you when he’s out of recovery.”
I stand there for a while after she’s gone. Weighing, waiting, wondering.
In the end, though, there’s only one right thing to do. I unclench my fist and slip my wedding ring back on my finger.
Then I turn and slip out of the door.
I’m glad he’ll live. But for both our sakes…
It’s best if I never see the Blue-Eyed Bastard again.
6
MAT
SIX WEEKS LATER
I’ve had six weeks to forget about the girl.
For the most part, I’ve been successful.
I’m sitting across the conference table from a man named Gregory Gordon. Every few minutes, there’s a wet plop as a drop of sweat from Gregory’s forehead lands on the sheaf of papers I just set in front of him.
If I was a better person or a worse lawyer, I might’ve started to feel bad for Gregory here. Things are not looking so good for him.
He’s the CFO of a mid-cap tech company being sued by my client, a hedge fund, for misrepresenting earnings right before filing for an IPO. I just passed him the printout of an email that proves beyond any doubt that he knew he was doing some underhanded bullshit, and made him read it out loud into the deposition record.
This spells the end of his career in Times New Roman 12pt font—and, if he’s been scheming with shady underworld types like Iknow for a fuckingfacthe has been, it might mean the end of his life, as well.
“I don’t think the camera quite heard that,” I say pleasantly. “Read it again from the top.”
Gregory breaks into tears.
