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“No, Eleanor did a good job with it. I was only needed at the final stage.”
I can imagine how he’d done it, too. Broad shoulders and sharp tones, commanding the room. Not taking no for an answer. Laying out his arguments in a pattern so ruthlessly logical you could only agree.
Victor runs a hand through his hair. “Did you have a good day?”
Panic crawls up my spine. No distance tonight, not like he’s been for the past days. All focus. I have Victor St. Clair in front of me, and he’s preparing himself for a negotiation.
“Yes. A good week, even. Got my business plan sent to my new accountant. I hired the one you recommended a while back. And I have a meeting set up with Carter next month.”
Victor gives a single nod, eyes intent on mine. “Good. That’s good.”
“Yeah. Nadine, actually, she finally got together with Jake? You know the man she thought would be good for me?” I say, and seeing his jaw tense, my words tumble out with the weight of bricks. “You know I never thought that. I wasn’t interested in him then. Anyway, point being, she’s happy. Which makes me happy too.”
“Right. That’s good too.”
“Yes,” I say. “So all is good. I’m having a good week.”
Don’t destroy it, I think. Please.
He clears his throat. “Cecilia, I want to talk to you about something, and to tell you the truth, I’m not sure where to start. It’s not the kind of conversation I’m used to having.” He runs a hand through his hair, the telltale sign of frustration. And I can’t let him get the words out.
“Look, I’ve been thinking too,” I say. “About us and what we’re doing means for our contract. You know, about how it complicates things? But I want you to know that I have a lot of respect for what you’re doing with your grandfather’s house. I’m not going to jeopardize that. So while mixing business and pleasure isn’t good, I think—”
“No, let me go first. Please.”
It’s thepleasethat leaves me silent. I nod, mouth still open.
He turns to his briefcase. Here it comes, doom in an envelope, and horror rises within me at the sight of the familiar manila color. Victor pulls out the piece of paper like he’s comfortable with it. Like it won’t bite him.
I don’t want it anywhere near me.
His jaw works once as he reads it over. “This is for you,” he says. “If you want it.”
He puts the paper down on the table. Petition for divorce. And at the bottom, his signature. The hard press of the V and the flourish on St. Clair.
He’s already signed it.
The words vanish in a haze of tears. I bury my face in my hands, but he’s seen it.
“Cecilia?”
“It was my mom, right? It got too much for you last weekend?”
“Don’t cry, Myers. Please.”
“My husband wants to divorce me. I think it’s appropriate.”
He gives a low groan. “I don’t understand people,” he mutters. “No, it wasn’t your mom. She’s a tough negotiator.”
“You think so?”
“Yes.”
“Then why?”
Victor braces both forearms against the table, blue eyes boring into mine. “Cecilia, don’t cry. Please. Look, I know I’ve been intolerable. I was a horrible boss, I’m tough to deal with, I have a short temper. I’m sorry for all of that. For making you cry at work. For making you cry right now. If you only knew how much that’s killed me, to think about. I know it’s all my fault.”
I shake my head, but I can’t find any words.
