Page 49 of The Exit Strategy

Hudson: I’ll need some context before I draft the prenup.

Fen: I’m on Stanley’s newsletter now! I knew my little Spite-Berry could pull some strings for me. Congrats to the happy couple!

Fen: There’s a poll, Cole. For the reception venue. This is priceless.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Nolan: What?

I stare at Nolan’s single word for a long time. There are exactly zero ways to explain this that don’t end up with him on the next flight home.

Cole: Nana Mae. Long story. It’s handled.

Nolan: …

Nolan: Is it?

Fen: It’s absolutely not handled. I’m screenshotting the newsletter for posterity.

Hudson: Is the ring real?

I lock my phone and shove it deep into my pocket.

Yes, the ring is real. It’s Nana Mae’s ring from my grandfather, and it’s currently stuck on Junie’s finger, and everytime I think about it—the way it shined, the way she kept twisting it, the way it looked like it had always been there—my chest cashes a check I can’t afford.

Junie hasn’t come down yet. Her light was off when I checked. Not that I checked a lot—just most of the night and all this morning.

When she does show up, she’s in full armor. Hair up. Laptop bag over one shoulder. Her blazer buttoned all the way to her neck. And the ring is still on her finger—clocked that immediately—even though she’s turned the diamond inward, so it rests against her palm.

She doesn’t look in my direction at all.

“Morning,” I offer.

“I’ve completed the preliminary reconciliation for the Q3 vendor accounts.” She sets a printed report on the kitchen island without breaking stride.

No good morning. No Mr. Whittaker. No snark or spite or even hostility. Just…cold efficiency. As though I’m a task on a spreadsheet she’s checking off.

This is so much worse than Spite-Berry energy.

With fire, I know where I stand. Fire means she cares enough to burn. This—this professional emptiness—means she’s decided I’m not worth the heat.

“Junie, it’s Sunday.”

“And? What the hell else am I going to do? The county assessment templates are downloaded. I’ll have the first draft of the filing by Wednesday. The sooner we clean this up, the sooner?—”

The sooner she can leave.

“Junie—”

“Is there anything else you need from me today?” She’s already halfway to the conference room. I glance at Nana Mae, hoping for some help, but even she lowers her gaze tothe floor. “I’d like to get ahead of this filing so I can have a clean draft for your review.”

My review. I’m now a client to manage instead of a man who kissed her head yesterday with a longing so visceral I thought my heart would combust.

“No,” I manage. “That’s—fine.”

Junie’s got me uttering the worst word in the English language.

She disappears into the conference room. There’s not even a door to slam, but I don’t think she’d do it anyway. The silence she leaves behind feels more like a wall than any door could provide.