Page 57 of The Truth of Us

The elevator descended slowly. Every floor felt like another second I had to keep my face composed. Another second I had to pretend I had not heard him call me ‘a whore for hire’ in a conference room full of people. Another second I had to not think about Caleb stepping toward me like he might put himself between me and Elliot, Rowan’s fury, or Julian’s angry surprise.

Elliot’s face when I…The memory hit hard enough that I had to close my eyes. Because beneath the anger and the cruelty and the panic, there had been something else there. Fear.

And I hated that I saw it. Hated that some tender, pathetic part of me wanted to turn around and ask why. I wanted to ask what happened to him that made hurting me feel like protection.

No. Absolutely not. Hurt people could get therapy. They could call a friend. They could drink water instead of scotch, scream into a pillow, or do literally anything other than schedule a woman to walk out of their private elevator so the person they claimed to want more with could understand her place.

So, no, I would not go back.

The elevator opened into the lobby, and my face was already fixed by the time Timothy stepped beside me. I almost forgot they were with me in the elevator.

Shit.

He didn’t say anything at first. We moved through the lobby together, my team trailing behind us. Outside, the cold air bit at my cheeks, sharp enough to make my eyes water.

Timothy waited until we reached the car before he finally said, “Do you want me to cancel the rest of your calls today?”

“No.”

My voice sounded normal.

“No,” I repeated, softer this time. “I’m fine.”

He looked at me as if he was very aware I was not fine, but he valued his life enough not to argue with a woman wearing heels sharp enough to be considered weapons.

“Don’t worry, I’ll handle Northwell,” he said.

I nodded. “You already have everything.”

“I do.”

I opened the car door, then paused. “And Timothy?”

“Yes?”

“If Elliot Vale tries to use Northwell to get to me, you do not patch him through.”

His expression shifted, but he schooled it, saying, “Understood.”

I slipped into the back of the car and closed the door before anyone could say anything or before a certain someone could make things worse.

The second the car pulled away from the curb, I opened my laptop. I worked, I built plans, put out fires, and controlled narratives. I made messes look clean and powerful men look less destructive than they actually were. The irony was not lost on me.

Sunday had been the same.

I had not slept since leaving Elliot’s building. I had gone home, dropped my bags inside the front entry of my townhouse, and stood there in the dark, still wearing my travel clothes, still hearing that woman’s voice.

“That is the second time my booty call with him was fucked up.”

The words had looped through my head until I thought I might actually go insane. I stood in my hallway for several minutes before I moved directly to my office. Because if I stopped, I would break. So I didn’t . I turned on every lamp, opened my laptop, and started pulling together the transition plan. I made lists, wrote emails, annotated every recommendation I had for Northwell’s public image for the next quarter, and I included Julian and Lucy's relationship timeline, Rowan’s risk exposure, Caleb’s public engagement recommendations, Theo’s complete lack of definable purpose, which was somehow a branding issue and a lifestyle choice, and Elliot. His section took the longest. Not because I didn’t know what to say, but because I knew exactly what to say.

The Face of Northwell required stability, consistency, and visible emotional maturity.

I stared at those words for fifteen minutes, then deleted emotional, and eventually added it back.

By five in the morning, I had called the firm’s managing partner and informed her I would work remotely through the holidays and possibly into the new year.

She didn’t question me.