Page 8 of Hate You More

“Save it,” he cuts in, his eyes suddenly boring into mine, corkscrew sharp. “I’m not interested.”

“But I am sorry,” I whisper anyway. Sorrier than he’ll ever realize.

He presses a button, and the doors slide open once more. “Go on,” he commands.

I step out, step to the side. Troy walks ahead, ignoring my sad little heart bleeding out on the polished concrete. There’s no point in trying to tell him that the person I was bears no resemblance to the person I am today. We’re not going to see each other again. Not after this, his reckoning, I expect.

This looks to be the C-suite. It’s pretty fancy. Not old-world fancy but cutting edge with something a little brutalist about it. Lots of hard surfaces and a pale palette. Unlike downstairs, there are no catchy slogans, banners, or placards, and there isn’t a bongo or a foosball table in sight. But there is a sleek sofa setting and a matching low table flanked by a pair of mid-century wingback chairs that look suspiciously like Frits Henningsen.

The sound of Troy’s footsteps echoes as he passes an unmanned desk the size of a small sailing boat. His assistant’s? Maybe a receptionist, judging by the various doors leading off behind it.

“Clara.”

“Yes?” I snap to attention at the sound of my name, that quirky piece of antiquity. I was named after my great-grandmother Clara. Fairfax is a family name. Fun fact: I was told that had I been born a boy, I would’ve been given the name Fairfax Forbes. Bullet dodged. “Coming,” I add, then fall in line as though I’m on the way to the gallows.

Troy opens the door directly ahead and gestures me through. Manners maketh the man? He must’ve forgotten that at the elevator.

“Take a seat.”

“Thank you, but I’ll stand.” For my executioner. Maybe that’s why he’s brought me up here. To see if I can fly.

“Suit yourself.” He begins to strip off his jacket, discarding the fine tailoring to a chair, like the retail value wouldn’t feed an average-size family for at least a few weeks. “You always did.”

“Well, that is very true.” To say my impulse control was poor back then is a little like saying water is wet.

My gaze flits around a room that looks like the kind of place people don’t visit for funsies but are instead summoned to. Don’t get me wrong, it’s tasteful. Classy, even. But it’s also . . . mid, as the kids say. God, that makes me sound old. I’m too old to be playing these games, anyway.

Rain hammers against the twin walls of windows providing views over the river, the bridges, and the city’s lights spilling northward. His desk is huge, made of dark wood and positioned like a chess piece in the center of a board. If you’re standing on the wrong side of the desk, I guess it’s game over. Two monitors and a leather folio sit atop the shiny surface, but nothing else. A fancy Herman Miller chair takes its place on the window side of the desk, while on the door side there are a couple of three-legged chairs. Presumably to keep visitors from feeling comfortable.

A meeting table takes up space on the right of the room, and it looks like someone used a tape measure to unify the space between the ’70s-style swivel chairs. Oversize art hangs on the wall opposite, abstract in nature, and a little blah, and a door stands to the right. An executive bathroom? The door to his harem? He never was short of interested parties, even when we were together. Young women, old. I can’t see that having changed.

A veritable corner office, high-end designer furniture all the way. But the space just doesn’t seem like it belongs to him. It’s sterile. Boring. When the man I used to know had so much personality.

“What’s your verdict?”

“Sorry?” I snap back to myself, cursing that I zoned out. How long have I been staring at his furniture?

“You seem to be taking stock.” He makes a dismissive gesture as he lowers himself to the edge of the desk, stretching out his long legs. Those thighs have thickened out since . . . well, since I last sat in his lap. Or rode it like a pony at the club. “Really taking stock.”

“Maybe I’m casing the joint.”

“More cosplay?” His gaze skates over me, and I frown, not because he’s wrong. So much for embodying the capable Velma. “Why don’t you just cut the shit.” He curls his hands around the edge of his desk, and I ignore the way his shirt bunches around his biceps. “And tell me what you’re doing here.”

“Well, I was working.” There’s a bite to my tone as I turn up my palms and give a miniature shrug. I should’ve taken that seat, because my back is truly aching now. The weight of guilt pressing on my shoulders and compressing my spine, maybe. But I already tried an apology, and look what that got me. “But you’ve put a nasty dent in both my future with the catering company and my pay tonight.”

“I haven’t got time for your games, Clara.” His brows slam together. “Are you a journalist?”

A laugh bursts out of me. I wish! The pay is undoubtedly steadier. “Why, do you have something to hide?”

“Just my disdain.”

“Try harder.”

“You forget, I know you.”

“I’m sure you think you do.” My fingers move to the tiny hoop in my right ear. A sure sign of a liar, I think I read somewhere. And that would be correct because I’m not the girl he used to know. I’ve done enough work on myself not to derive any kind of enjoyment from this exchange. Though there was a time when any kind of attention felt like connection. Validation. And I know now that, in a lot of ways, that behavior wasn’t my fault. Therapy provided plenty of epiphanies.

But I’ve made my fair share of mistakes, and I accept my reality. This is an uncomfortable situation for both of us, but I can’t—I won’t—tell him what he wants to hear just for my life to make sense in his head.