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Only years of practice keep me expressionless.
The fury boiling inside me feels like an unsheathed sword.
Fury, and pain.
This can’t be real.
I refuse to fucking believe it.
“And you can prove that these sketches predate Clara’s ... how?” I ask sharply. “None of these are dated. Do you intend to carbon-date Lester Sullivan’s sketches versus hers right down to the day of creation?”
Marissa’s expression falls, then tightens into a sneer. “Oh, I don’t need to. This is enough that even if I lose the case, I’ll create a big shitpile. I’ll ruin you, Marshall. I’ll ruin her. Tear her shitty fucking legacy down brick by brick till there’s nothing left. Your precious IP—your stupid fucking penguin—will be worthlessh then!” Her voice descends into another snarling slur as she snatches the sketchbook back, holding it protectively. “Save yourself the trouble. Sell Little Key to me and sh-sail away.”
My lawyers look troubled.
Her lawyers look pained and embarrassed.
I don’t know how the hell I look.
But I know I feel like a chainsaw-wielding maniac.
I keep myself contained—barely—as I meet Marissa’s eyes without blinking.
“Leave,” I clip.
She recoils. “Excuse me?”
“I said leave,” I repeat firmly. “This meeting is done. You’re once again not in possession of your full senses, and I won’t talk deals when you’re under the influence and unable to consent to anything legally binding. Leave, Miss Sullivan. I will ignore the insult of you appearing for this discussion drunk, and hope that this time you can make your way home with assistance.” I can’t resist the pointed reminder. “Perhaps we’ll have a more civil discussion another time.”
She gapes at me.
Her lawyers shift uncomfortably.
I narrow my eyes.
“I am not above having you escorted off the premises, Miss Sullivan,” I growl.
Marissa makes a flustered, angry sound and jumps to her feet.
“You’ll regrets this!” she snaps. “I will ruin you, you preppy fuck. Tear your fucking aunt apart! She took everything from my family—you understand? From me!”
Her voice cracks.
Real emotion.
Genuine grief.
I hate this shit.
Hate the complicated history that makes her feelings valid even while her actions are unconscionable.
Or are they?
I damned well intend to find out.
All I say is “Good day, Miss Sullivan.”
She stares at me for another bitter moment, trembling with rage.
