Page 152 of Hate You More

“So what’s the plan?”

“Fucked if I know. If I stay with Clara, I’m no longer CEO. And if I leave her . . .” Outside, rain begins to hammer against the window. It feels like a personal assault.

“You’ll be crushed.”

I’m relieved he doesn’t ask when this marriage turned from business to something else. Life without her . . . I can’t contemplate. But without my company feels like washing years of struggle down the drain. It’s not even that the title of CEO means anything, because labels are temporary. I could walk into another CEO position tomorrow anywhere within the industry. If I walk away, I won’t lose my financial stake. Just my say. And that feels like a shift in gravity—like the ground is coming up to meet me fast.

If I’m not the CEO, who am I? And who speaks for this company in these rooms I built? If I don’t have control, do I even have a home? Or a place in this world?

“I cannot lose Table,” I say more to myself than him, the words sounding low and harsh.

From a spark of an idea, we built this company from nothing. Brick by brick, decision by decision, every step, every acquisition, every move calculated. To me, this company isn’t just revenue and assets and prestige. It’s proof that I’m not defined by where I started.

As Max rakes his hand through his hair, my attention is pulled back to the present. “We’ll tell the board. Make a clean breast of it.”

“You make it sound like I’m guilty of something.”

“You are.” He gives a wry smile. “You’re guilty of being an idiot. Or human. But if we can—”

“There is no we in this,” I reply with a pathetic excuse for a smile. “And it would be my word against his. The new kid versus the stalwart of a banking dynasty.”

The rain gets louder, hammering now against the windowpane as my mind shifts back to Clara. Last night, lying in the dark, it felt as though something between us had settled into alignment.

“Clara will always choose herself.”

A voice inside of me whispers something ugly: What if he’s right?

What if he offers her the same deal? Walk away and he . . . what? Leaves her alone. Doesn’t threaten her impact fund. Would she choose me over uncertainty?

Max is still talking. Contingency planning, talking about employing external counsel, but what’s the point?

“I won’t give him the power.” My voice is low and hard.

“Then you remove his leverage.”

The words land like an axe, cleaving me from Clara.

My stomach pits. Bottom line? I cannot lose the company. I won’t.

Chapter 43

Clara

The pin-striped pencil skirt is a little difficult to walk in coupled with these heels. Or maybe it’s that I’m still out of practice despite the number of charity galas, networking dinners, and other events on Troy’s social calendar I’ve attended on his arm.

He’s quite the charming socializer, I think, tempering my smile. I slide my hand into my open trench coat to straighten the front of a white blouse that’s cut low enough to suggest invitation and definitely not safe for work. As I step out of the glass revolving doors, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrored wall. I’m wearing my Velma glasses, my hair is ironed straight, and my lipstick as red as a warning.

The building is busy, people to-ing and fro-ing, some dressed for the office, others for what looks like the skate park in baggy jeans and hoodies. Maybe one of the companies in the building is having a bring-your-disgruntled-teen-to-work day. My mind hops from teenagers to fathers and then make-believe husbands who offer to stand up for you.

I’d left my redirected mail—my letter from the IRS—on the dining table and Troy had spotted it. And it wasn’t so much what he said, which was something along the lines that I really ought to let him speak with my dad. It was the way he stepped closer as though to shield me, not because he thinks I’m a fragile flower, but because he cares for me. The sentiment was in the intensity of his words and in the way he looked at me.

For a moment, I imagined the two of them in the same room. My father’s cold authority meeting Troy’s unyielding will. The collision would be catastrophic, and though I’m beyond touched that he offered, I couldn’t do that to him. There’s no way I want him in my father’s line of sight.

I sign in at the main reception and get my visitor’s pass. My heels echo as I cross the foyer for the escalator, and I begin to wonder if I haven’t thought this through enough. Even with the trench coat covering my outfit, I still stand out like a sore thumb. No one wears six-inch heels to the office, especially not red ones.

But I wasn’t aiming for subtle. And I expect I’ll look much worse on the way back out.

At the mezzanine floor, I make no eye contact with anyone as I swipe my pass at the elevator bank. The car arrives immediately, and the doors are almost closed when a hand slips between them. As they part obediently, Hannah steps in.