Page 12 of Abyss

After typing and deleting the same damn sentence in an email four times, I slam my fingers onto the keyboard before running them through my hair.

Belinda left an hour ago, as stated in the email she sent me. About as big of a fuck you as I expected, given she barely spoke to me all day. I heard her and Kavi murmuring throughout the morning before they eventually went to lunch together.

Evidently, she’s still pissed off about my reluctance to hire the art therapist with the work experience of a toddler in her stead.Well, go right the fuck ahead, Belinda. I’m not losing sleep over it.Because if I’m going to be strong-armed into keeping this woman around for three months, then she’ll have to deal with my retorts and objections while she’s around.

Ifshe sticks around.

My eyes drag back to the plate, and I huff before bringingit toward me. Ripping off the note, I stall on the words written on itagain—on every letter curved and contoured, as if painted with a brush. She even drew an umbrella over the words.

Thanks for chasing away the rain.

My gaze inadvertently finds the droplets clinging to the windows in my office, the gloom from the lack of sun over the past few weeks barely noticeable in the evening. The rain hasn’t let up all day, and the forecast says it has no inclination for doing so in the foreseeable future.

What the fuck is she talking about?

Chasing away the rain?

Not knowing what to do with the dessert—not wanting to relent by eating it, nor wanting to throw it away—I shove it inside my leather bag.

Thirty minutes later, well past the time most of the staff has left, I pull my suit coat back on. Stowing my laptop inside my bag, and careful not to squish the cake, I head out of my office. As usual, my eyes harden, along with my jaw, at the empty office across mine.

Shoving away memories, and the subsequent crack to my heart, of the day they both came to my office to tell me they were going to work for our rivals—with my girlfriend at the time telling me she’d slept with my brother—I stalk down the hall, heading toward the exit. The last thing I expect is to see movement at Belinda’s desk.

It’s well past eight and pouring buckets outside. So why the hell is she still here?

My legs still, a frown pulling at the corners of my mouth. “Why are you still here?”

“Hi! Um . . .” She rises awkwardly, making the chair roll back farther than she intended. She swipes a strand of silky hair behind her ear, giving me a glimpse of . . .Are those plastic orange slices hanging from her ears?The woman has the strangesttaste in fashion. “Belinda said she stayed until you left. So . . .”

Right. Belinda usually comes to my office to tell me to leave before she threatens to sue me for something.

“I don’t expect that from you.” I scowl—which seems to be my permanent expression around this woman—watching her tangle her hands together nervously. “In fact, I don’t expectanythingfrom you.”

She flinches, as if my words physically assaulted her, and before she can form a response, I turn to walk to the elevator.

She isn’t Kenna, and this isn’t like me.

Sure, I’m surly and demanding; I’ve been more so after the way things went down with Jett and Kenna, since they also managed to take a few key staff with them. But have I ever been this callous?

I’d lost faith that day, in the people I thought I could trust, in the way I’d run my business until then. In me.

To think my own fucking brother—the kid I’d practically helped raise, my flesh and blood—would shove a dagger in my back. For what? And why?

I don’t give two-flying fucks about Kenna—she lost her place in my life and my heart the minute she told me she'd slept with my brother because I wasn’t “around enough”—but I have thought about asking him if it was worth it. Was it worth it to gut the person who always stood by his side? Who helped make him who he is?

I haven’t asked though, and I probably never will. Like I said, I don’t chase quitters.

I’m inside the elevator, with the doors closing, when I think I hear a sniffle.

Fuck.

I jab a finger on theOpen Doorbutton right as my hand juts out to try to keep the doors open, but it’s too late. Thedoors force closed, and I’m stuck inside with my stomach in knots.

The weight of my own bitterness presses against the walls of my chest as the elevator descends.

The doors finally open, revealing the lobby downstairs, the doorman scrolling his phone at the front and pellets of rain still streaming down the windows.

I have half a mind to push the button for my floor again and go back up to talk to her . . . to apologize. Shit! I don’t know.

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