Page 17 of Ansel

I didn’t know what he expected from me. Forgiveness? Understanding? Whatever it was, I didn’t have it to give.

“I’m sincere, Neha.”

Now, I actually let out a dry chuckle. “That’s what I used to think. But the fact that you could tell me you didn’t know how you’d do your job without me, and then turn around and say I wasn’t good enough to work for you, that told me everything I need to know about yoursincerity.” I folded my arms, meeting his gaze head-on.

“You’re not sincere, Ansel. You’re not authentic. You’re just like everyone else—saying whatever you need to say to get what you want.”

Ansel looked hurt.Aww!

“I know what you did for me at work, Neha. I appreciated it.”

“Really? You can say that with a straight face?”

He looked sad now. “Yes, I can because since you’ve been gone it’s been hell.”

Is that why he was back? He was missing hisjust an assistant. Well, he could go fuck himself!

I let out a long deep cleansing breath and kept my voice flat when I said, “If that’s all, you should go.”

For the first time since I’d known him, Ansel looked confused, unsure, not confident at all. I wasn’t falling into line, everyone around him always did. The entitled prick!

“Neha, how can I make this right?”

Youcan’t, you dickhead. You can’t fix what you broke inside of me. You can’t make meunhearthe shit you said about me. You can’t make meun-feelthe humiliation of resigning—not because I wanted to, but because I knew if I stayed, you’d fire me.

I met his gaze. “I don’t know, and I don’t care. I’m not here to help you feel better about howyoubehaved.”

“Neha—”

“You know what your problem is? You’re an entitled son of a bitch who always gets what he wants without having to work too hard for it.”

His jaw tightened, but I wasn’t done.

“I’m a woman of color, Ansel. I’ve had to worktwiceas hard just to get thesmallestcareer wins, just to be seen, just to prove I’m worth a seat at the table. And you?” I shook my head in disgust. “You don’t want to makeanythingright. You just want to ease your guilty conscience.”

I took a step back, my voice cold and final.

“Do us both a favor—get the fuck out and don’t come back.”

Without another word, I turned on my heel and walked into the kitchen.

8

FIXING WHAT I BROKE

ANSEL

The gym smelled like sweat and rubber. The rhythmic clank of weights and the steady thump of a treadmill filled the silence as my brother and I worked out together four days a week.

I pressed the barbell up, my muscles burning, but the ache in my chest was worse. Not from the workout. Fromher. It had hurt like a motherfucker to see Neha looking at me like I wasn’t even worth talking to anymore.

I gritted my teeth and finished my last rep, racking the bar with more force than necessary before sitting up. Across from me, Michael, who was annoyingly observant, watched me with the condescending patience, that said,‘I’m waiting, little brother, get to it already so I can tell you how you’ve screwed up.’

I grabbed my water bottle, twisting the cap open with too much force. “Go ahead. Say whatever psych lecture you’ve been dying to give me.”

Michael, a professor of psychology at NYU grinned, wiping sweat from his forehead with a towel. “I don’t have to say anything. You’re already fighting the conversation in your head.”

I scowled. “Yeah, well, it’s a dumb conversation.”

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