Page 31 of Leverage & Obedience

I recognize my pattern and change it up. “I want to know something, and I want the truth.”

His jaw tightens a fraction. “Okay.”

“How many temps have you had before me?”

He freezes. “Rachel talked to you.”

“How many?”

He exhales and uncrosses his arms to grip the desk behind him. “I don’t know. A lot. Several a year for over seven years.”

My mouth is dry as I imagine a line of women. I really am just the next slot.

“And the position.” My voice is steady, somehow. “The three-month contract with no chance of permanent.”

He’s very still.

“Is it supposed to be temporary?”

“No.”

My ribs feel like they shrink an inch. Every caring thing he’s done for me starts looking different from this angle.

“You’ve been cycling through temps deliberately.”

“Yes.”

“I’m done.” I keep my voice flat. “The arrangement, the job, all of it.”

He pushes off the desk and takes a step towards me. “Lily, let me—”

I cut him off. “Let you what? Explain why you built the whole thing so nobody ever stays? I get it, Bren. I really do.” The more of it I say out loud, the angrier I get. “A new admin every three months. Always a temp, always already leaving, so nothing has to mean anything and nobody has to stay. Efficient.”

I make myself say the rest. “And I’m not the first temp you’ve fucked in that office. Am I.” It isn’t a question. “How many before me? How many of them got the good girl and the protein bar? Chocolate and peanut butter is a safe bet. Does that magical drawer have strawberries and cream in there also, just in case I didn’t want the usual?”

“That’s not—” He stops and drags his hand through his hair. “Sit down. Let’s talk.”

“I don’t want to sit down.”

“Then stand. But listen to me, please.” His voice cracks on the last word, and he swallows. “You told me you’re done. I heard you. But please hear me out, even if you leave afterwards. I’ve never said this to anyone.”

My heart is a fist in my chest. I don’t move.

He takes a breath. “My wife died eight years ago.”

Hearing him say it is different from an overheard conversation in the break room.

“Christine.”

The name punches through my chest. Knowing her name somehow makes this worse.

His hand on the desk tightens until I can count the bones. “It was an aneurysm.” He’s trying to keep his voice even, but I can hear the tremor. “She was fine that morning and laughing about the neighbor’s dog. She collapsed at noon and was gone by two.”

My eyes burn. I don’t want to feel anything.

“We were trying for a baby. Christine had already picked colors for the nursery.”

I blink and the ceiling tiles blur, blink again and they’re sharp. If he makes me cry over his ex-wife, I’m going to hate him.