Page 33 of Mister St. James

He flinches at my tone, but recovers. “Nobody’s firing you. But there’s a situation. Something I have to handle. Alone.”

I snort. “You’re a CEO, not fucking Batman.”

His face goes stone. “There’s a project. It requires absolute confidentiality, even from you for a while, and I need to handle it without distraction,” he says, and it sounds practiced, but the way he looks away when he says “distraction” gives away more than he thinks.

I lean on the counter, arms crossed now. “You think I’m a liability.” I don’t ask it. I state it.

He starts to answer, stops. He looks out at the city, then back down at the whiskey glass. “I think it’s complicated.”

I let out a sound that’s not quite a laugh. “No, Aiden. Quantum mechanics is complicated. This is simple. You either trust me or you don’t.”

He’s silent long enough that I want to smash the glass just to force a reaction.

Then, soft: “Maybe we should take a step back. At least until this project is through.” His voice has that CEO-calm, the kind that says “we’re sunsetting your position” instead of “you’re fired.”

I let the silence sit between us, a loaded chamber.

“So that’s it?” I say. “Just ‘Please handle Zurich, and by the way, fuck off ‘til I call you’?”

His eyes flick away, to the window, to anywhere that isn’t my face.

There’s this sound my head makes when I’m about to lose it, a ringing, like the feedback loop on a bad mic. I hear it now, whistling between my ears.

“Let’s just…” He runs a hand through his hair, which is getting longer than he used to let it, “take a step back. For now.”

I want to scream, but all that comes out is a tight laugh. “Step back?” I repeat. “Is that what you want?”

He looks at me, then away. “I think it’s necessary.”

I wait, but he doesn’t say more. I nod, twice, just to feel like I’m still in charge of my body.

I walk to the kitchen, pick up my jacket from where it hangs, and drape it over my arm. I turn back to him, and he’s still standing at the counter, but his shoulders are slumped, the line of his jaw sharp with regret, or maybe just relief.

“I may have begged for a lot of things in the past, Aiden, but I won’t beg you to be honest with me,” I say, voice flat. “You either are or you aren’t.”

He doesn’t answer. I don’t wait for him to.

At the door, I pause. I want to say something clever, something that will stick in his mind and rot there, but all I can manage is the truth.

“When you figure out if I’m someone you trust or just someone you want to fuck occasionally, let me know.” My voice cracks a little on “trust,” but I don’t let it show.

I let the door close behind me, quiet, final. The latch catches with a click that sounds louder than the slam would have.

The elevator is empty. In the mirrored walls, my reflection is split in three, each one more cracked than the last.

Hold it together, Cat. No tears. Not here.

I watch the numbers count down, one floor at a time, and I pretend I’m getting lighter with every stop.

But by the time I hit the lobby, my knees are jelly and my eyes burn, and all I can think is that I have never, ever, felt this alone.

Chapter sixteen

Protection Protocol

Aiden

I’ve lost track of what hour it is, but I know the sky’s gone anemically pale, bled dry of all color by the city’s permanent haze and whatever is happening inside my own skull. The kitchen island vanished beneath strata of laser-printed access logs, sticky-edged folders, curled club event flyers, and a local topography of empty espresso cups, all orbiting a half-eaten takeout carton of cold noodles. The only light is from the three laptop screens and a halogen lamp, harsh and clinical, pointed directly at the mess.