He catches my arm, dragging me to him, and my hand flattens on his chest, but he doesn’t say anything and he smells like perfume. No. He smells like her. “Let go of me,” I say, my voice trembling with the pain I swore no man would cause me again.
Several beats pass and if I wanted some sort of denial from him, I don’t get it. He releases me, and every warm spot this man ever created in me turns icy. I take a step backward, swallowing hard, and turning away. Somehow, my feet are moving, while the cold, hard truth is slowly, but precisely, seeping in and carving out a piece of my heart. This isn’t even a betrayal. He’d cut ties with me last night and I’d simply chosen not to believe it to be true.
Reaching the end of the hall that leads to the elevator, I already know he’s not following me, but some part of me needs that confirmation. Inhaling, I rotate to glance down the path I’ve just traveled to find Shane lingering in his doorway, now in profile, his hand on the jamb, his head tilted forward and low. Tormented, it seems, but I don’t pretend to know what he’s feeling. I don’t pretend to know him at all. I leave then, turning the corner and moments later, stepping into the elevator, I have two thoughts. I’m still clutching the folder I never gave him against my chest and I must have been falling in love with him to hurt this badly.
I step out of the Four Seasons and onto the street to start the six-block walk to my apartment, shoving aside the tears threatening to erupt. I will not cry. I will not be defined by the actions of one man. And the very idea that if Shane had declared that woman’s presence in his home an innocent encounter, I’d have believed him—despite her scent clinging to his clothes—infuriates me. I will not become the fool my mother was with my stepfather, with Shane or any other man.
A half block later, I have found a cold, gray spot in my mind and taken residence there, not overthinking my relationship with Shane, when I so easily could. Instead, I occupy my mind by reading store names, never letting myself go to places that might test my emotions. By block four there is a prickling sensation on my neck, a sense of being watched I do not like. It quickens my pace, reminding me of more than Randy. It reminds me of why I’m in Denver, and it is with relief that I reach my apartment and lock myself inside.
Leaning on the door, I walk to the kitchen, and set the folder on the counter. I grab my purse and the new disposable phone inside, punching in Kevin’s number. He doesn’t answer, of course. He never answers. “I think I’m in trouble,” I say. “I need help. You have to call me back.” I press end and then redial his number, with the same result. I try again and again, and I have this clawing feeling that Kevin is gone for good. I set my phone on the counter, and stare at my apartment, absent of all furniture, and I have never felt so alone or without resources. That’s not true. I do have a resource. Shane and the Brandon Family empire.
Perfection is achieved, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away.
—Carlo Gambino
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
EMILY
What better place to hide than inside the Brandon Family empire, outside the king’s door? That is the idea I cling to as I fall asleep, and the same one I cling to come morning light. That one premise motivates me to get up and dress in what has become my go-to navy skirt and matching blouse and to apply bright pink lipstick to deflect from the dark circles under my eyes that concealer has failed to cover. Task complete, I end up in the kitchen, staring at the folder I’d left on the counter, not sure what to do with it. Ultimately, no matter how Shane and I ended, I do believe he’s the better man, and I snatch it up, and head for the door, deciding I’ll leave it on his desk the first chance I can discreetly manage.
I exit my apartment, lock up, and find myself scanning for something, or someone, or I don’t really know what. I just know that I still feel that creepy, being watched sensation that has me taking longer strides on my path to work, and solidifies my decision to keep my job. I can’t worry about a confrontation with Shane right now. No one can be as safely invisible as I am if I leave my job. Finally at the building, I head inside and waste no time making my way to the office and my desk outside Brandon Senior’s still dark office, and stick the folder in my drawer.
It’s then that the reality of Shane and I coming face-to-face hits me hard, but my phone buzzes, distracting me, and I spend the next hour juggling calls for Brandon Senior. A break comes and the need to go to the file room has me thinking of my visitor last night. I grab my Rolodex, and find the security desk number, punching it in.
“Security,” a woman answers. “Can I help you?”
“Yes. Hi. This is Brandon Senior’s assistant. Can you tell me the names of the guards who were on duty last night?”
“Was there a problem?”
“Oh no. The opposite. One of the men checked on me when I was working late and I want to tell his supervisor.”