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I picture him in the limo back from the party, sending emails in that clipped manner of his. Ruining me was a moment’s work for Jonah. An annoyance at the end of the day.
I press the heels of my hands to my eyes to keep from crying. I am not going to cry over him. He doesn’t deserve it. Men don’t change. I’m a fool. Jonah told me in no uncertain terms who he was, and I didn’t believe him.
I want you to suffer.
This is not a buddy cop movie.
I am not a good person.
Idiot. I’m such an idiot.
The longer I press my lips together to keep my chin from wobbling, the worse I feel, and the more anger starts to tangle inside me. I welcome it. I’d rather anger than betrayal.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I love him. I lost him. He hates me.
The ache inside me doesn’t dull when I click out of the website. On my screen is the last article I started about Jonah. A brief piece about Kings Lane with a photo of Jonah in a suit right above it. His eyes are devilish, his face is set. He’s staring at the viewer like he hates them.
Like he knows it’s me behind the camera.
54
Callie
I think I’m going to be sick. The rush of the elevator rising isn’t helping. I’ve dressed well for my execution, in my favorite blue dress. My cheeks are heated and I press cold fingers against them, trying to calm myself. I thought maybe he’d leave it at ruining the paper. Fool. Jonah Crown does nothing by half measures. I received a clipped email last night with instructions to arrive at ten a.m. and wait by the elevators. It didn’t come from Jonah. It came from HR. He can’t even be bothered to fire me himself.
When the elevator opens onto the 52nd floor, I’m greeted by George. Instead of a smile, I get a stony glare. I feel like the enemy. I guess I am the enemy, though I’m not entirely sure why.
“I know the way to the conference room.”
“You’re not allowed to wander the halls here without an escort,” they say crisply. There’s sadness in their voice, though. My heart clenches. George and I could have been friends. Not anymore.
I duck my head as we pass people at their desks. Silence falls as we pass the little groups, then whispers start up behind me. I think I’m going to be sick. My stomach is sloshing.
I waited for Jonah to call yesterday, even though I wasn’t sure I wanted to pick up the phone. I held out foolish hope for hours, alternating between turning my phone off and trying to sleep away the day, and staring at it while I waited for him to call.
I love you. Let me show you what it’s like to be mine.
When I saw the email from HR, I thought perhaps I was being summoned to hand in my badge and get my belongings. But now? It’s clear Jonah wants me to suffer. He picked the conference room farthest from his office, which he never uses, but which requires me to pass every cubicle on this floor in a sick parade of shame.
George silently opens the conference room door, and I steel my spine before walking in.
Seeing Jonah is like being punched in the gut. Damnable hope rises and is rapidly squashed as I catalog his appearance. Cruel stare, smirking mouth. He’s spread lazily in a chair. He doesn’t bother to stand when I enter, instead gesturing to a chair at the opposite end of the long conference table. So that’s how it is. My breakfast turns to a hard lump in my stomach.
Miles is there, too, along with a woman I think is Caitlin, the head of HR, one of the internal lawyers, and an unknown man who looks like he might be a security person. Looks like Jonah brought a crowd. Their faces blur and I look away.
I seat myself and press my hand between my thighs to keep them from shaking. This feels like an interrogation. Caitlin’s face is serene, but Miles’s normally pleasant expression is sour.
“We have an NDA for you to sign.” When Jonah finally speaks, his words are crisp.
“I’m being fired?” I assumed it was coming, but I have to be sure. Right back where I started, but now, he’s taken everything.
He barks an unamused laugh. “Yes, Ms. Thompson. You’re being fired.” Anger flashes through me. What right does he have to mock me, when he ruined me? His eyes are glittering with malice, and his cruel amusement at my expense makes me bold. Foolishly bold, perhaps.
“On what grounds?” I raise my chin.
“You really want to know?” He looks pleased at the prospect.
I nod. “I’ve done everything you asked. I didn’t report on anything confidential. I didn’t act out at work.”
