Page 39 of Hidden & Held

“That was your idea,” Jackson supplies, sounding unsure for the first time.

“And you were ecstatic to hear that, played right into your hand, didn’t it?”

Jackson’s shoulders tense before he admits, “Yes, I was more than happy to go along with your suggestion; it worked for my assignment.”

His admission settles in my stomach as if I swallowed it the wrong way, sitting there, refusing to move. But I have to keep going.

“These reports you filed, you must have been flagging irregularities, issues,” I say. “Prior to the Lena situation.”

“The reports were weekly due diligence summaries. Standard acquisition protocol—personnel assessments, financial patterns, client risk profiles. Morrison Rose needed to know what they were buying.”

“And who was a liability,” I supply.

“And who was a liability,” he confirms, quieter. “I wouldn’t phrase it that way, but potential concerns for an employer: nothing to note or of value.”

I still, slowly blinking once. “What kind of concerns?”

Jackson hesitates. It is the first time I have asked him to elaborate beyond one-word answers.

“Inconsistencies. Missed follow-ups on routine internal requests, lack of excitement for a winning verdict, and inability to recall certain details.” He hesitates before continuing, “Behavioral patterns that read as—” he stops, reluctant to say the words.

“As what? Answer the question.”

“Distracted, or evasive. I wasn’t sure which.”

I feel the weight of his explanation settle in the hollow of my chest. He noticed something was wrong before I did. Before I could feel it in my own hands, shaking over a coffee cup. He didn’t have a name for it; neither did I. He filed it under liability and kept showing up at my duplex on weekends anyway.

“You noted these occurrences because you were in close contact with me.”

“Yes, but Phi⁠—”

“Closer contact than you would have had otherwise, if you weren’t seducing me?”

“It wasn’t like that!” he roars.

I continue on as if I didn’t hear him. “And those notes, my brain fog, lack of interest, those went into your report, the one Cassandra had access to? A report where you included observations about my personal conduct, not my ability to do the job, but an intrusion into my life. You added that into your precious Monday morning memo?”

In a strained voice, unlike the low baritone I have become accustomed to, he answers, “Yes.”

I nod once, not letting myself sit in what I’ve just confirmed—that Jackson’s attention to me, the very thing that felt like being seen, chosen, became the instrument of my career destruction.

I know what question is coming next, and I have been moving toward it, knowing it is going to hurt, and doing it anyway because not knowing is worse.

“Your family knows about Cassandra; you’ve spoken about her enough; they wanted her to come to dinner. They knew her name.”

Jackson’s face drops. “Phoenix⁠—”

“Yes or no.”

“Yes.” The word costs him something. I can hear it.

His mother. The woman who said, “Cassandra, I have heard so much about you.”

“Sugar—”

I look at the floor, hating myself for the weakness I am about to show. “They don’t know mine, do they?”

It comes out quieter than I intend. A truth that I have said out loud for the first time. This man has such light and acceptance from his family, the ones who are his everything.