Page 87 of The Awful Truth

Henrik shook his head. “It’s too late for that. I might be able to convince him not to press charges, but you will definitely be fired.”

Fired. It was really going to happen. And here, only half an hour ago she was so excited. A bank transfer of fifty thousand US dollars was at this exact moment on the way to her account. Enough to furnish and rent an apartment for a long time. She’d have to get a roommate when the money ran out, but at least she’d finally be free of her parents, free of the pitying looks from the neighbors and her sister’s smug smile. “When Dominik comes back, I’ll go to the office and throw myself on his mercy. He’s known me since I was born. He’ll forgive me.”

“He won’t, Petra. You’ve known him since you were a baby, and yet you still betrayed him. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t.”

“Of course he can. He’s The Director, for god’s sake! He can do anything he wants.”

“A man doesn’t end up in his position by allowing people to break the rules. He gets there because he does everything by the book. He’s spent an entire career building the trust of the most powerful people in the country. He’s not going to blow that because you cry and beg him to.” Her father let out a heavy sigh. “No, you won’t even be allowed back in the building again. Not after today.”

“But…I have a plant on my desk, and some really expensive perfume,” she said before she realized how stupid that sounded.

“I’ll ask Tomislav to pick it up for you.”

“No! Please don’t tell him. And don’t tell Vita,” Petra said. “I couldn’t bear if they knew.”

Hermina appeared in the entrance to the kitchen, her eyebrows furrowed. “Knew what?”

Petra let out a sob and covered her mouth with both hands. She shook her head at her father, not wanting her mother to know what she had done.

Henrik’s shoulders dropped. “Petra has made a grave mistake.”

ONE YEAR LATER

“Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.” ~ Victor Hugo

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 5, 2019

LONDON, ENGLAND

WINSLOW

Winslow stood at the back corner of the living room, which was currently a television set and construction site. They were at the townhouse in Chelsea on Miguel’s renovation show, produced by the BBC. He’d been there all morning watching Miguel film, loving every second of seeing him in his element.

After Travis’s death, the new CEO of Summit Media canceled the original show in Ontario, citing the expense and difficulty sourcing materials to the remote location. They’d sent Miguel a notice that the show had been canceled, along with their apologies and a check for one-hundred-thousand dollars, as per the contract that Enid had secured him.

Winslow had officially stepped back from his work at the hedge fund to take care of his health. The real reason had been hidden from the public by the board, who knew it was in their best interest to keep it quiet. The fund had recovered from that awful day eighteen months ago and he had settled into the life of being a stay-at-home husband. They’d become one of those obnoxious rescue-dog couples, telling everyone that their new standard poodle, Mr. Darcy (who hailed from the streets of Istanbul), had really rescued them. Mr. Darcy was a proud, tall brown dog (who Miguel insisted wasn’t brown but rather cafe-au-lait). He sat faithfully beside Winslow in a diamond-studded collar, quietly watching all the action. He was a very good dog and had quickly taken over their home, with a designer dog bed in each room of the house, including their walk-in closet (because, after everything he’d been through, why should he have to lay on the wood floor when they were getting dressed?)

The director called for a ten-minute break, and Miguel made a beeline for him, a proud grin on his face. “Well? What do you think?”

“You’re amazing at your job and handsome as all hell.”

“No, about the paint color, silly.”

“Oh that, yes, it’s exactly the right color to make the kitchen feel welcoming and warm yet sophisticated.”

Miguel chuckled. “You’re just repeating what I said.”

“That’s because I agree with you,” Winslow answered.

“It’s because you couldn’t care less.”

“That too,” he said, lifting his hand to Miguel’s face to wipe a bit of powder off his forehead. “Much better.”

Miguel smiled at him. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Same. So much better than being at the bottom of the sea with some weights strapped to me.”

Tears filled Miguel’s eyes. “Stop it. That’s not funny.”