Page 46 of Letters From Victor

Frank’s eyes flickered—hope, perhaps for a second—before hardening again. “Yes. If she’s not working, she’ll come home. Things will go back to the way they were.” He looked down at his lap. “The way they should be.”

There it was. The real reason for his visit. I studied Frank’s face—the tight lines around his mouth, the rigid set of his jaw. He wasn’t a fool, but he wasn’t as clever as he thought.

“Barbara is a grown woman, Frank. She can make her own decisions.”

Frank uncrossed his arms and gripped the chair. “Can she?” he challenged. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re the one calling the shots.”

I drummed my fingers on the envelope thick with cash. Frank’s eyes flicked toward it, and his body tensed like he was sizing up a threat. I took another drag from my cigarette, savoring the acrid taste of tobacco, and let the smoke coil up from my lips in a slow, deliberate spiral.

“Are you accusing me of something, Frank?”

He was silent for a moment—the kind of silence weighed down by pent-up anger. Then he stood—slowly, deliberately.

“I’m not here to accuse,” he said finally, though the heat in his voice suggested otherwise. “I’m here to get my wife back.”

I exhaled slowly, letting the cigarette smoke curl between us like a lazy ghost. He leaned over the desk, his large hands splayed on the mahogany surface. The proximity was meant to intimidate, but it only confirmed how desperate he was. I recalled Barbara splayed out on the very same desk, breathless and undone, moaning and panting with pleasure—pleasure that Frank wouldn’t recognize if it slapped him across the face.

The memory made me smile—a slow, deliberate curl of my lips. Frank stiffened. His jaw clenched, face flushing as he shoved the envelope across the desk at me.

“Take the money,” he growled. “We’re even, and she doesn’t need this job anymore.”

With casual disdain, I stubbed out my cigarette in the crystal tray and rose to meet his gaze. “Frank,” I said, my tone almost gentle, “this isn’t about the money.”

His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, I thought he might take a swing at me. Part of me hoped he would. The physical release would be welcome, and it would give me an excuse to finish what I suspected he lacked the courage to start.

But Frank held himself in check. He straightened up, adjusted his cheap, gaudy tie, and stepped back from the desk. “You think you’re some kind of big shot, don’t you?”

I circled the desk, the air between us charged like a storm about to break.

“Careful, pal. Much more, and I’ll start to take it personally.”

We stood toe to toe, though he had the height advantage. Frank held his ground, his eyes drilling into mine with hatred and helplessness. I could almost hear his thoughts ricocheting in his skull, colliding like pool balls with nowhere to land. He was a man on the brink, and I suspected that one well-placed push might send him right over the edge.

“I don’t want trouble,” Frank said, his voice low, almost a growl. “I just want what’s mine.”

The way he said it—like she was a set of cufflinks he’d misplaced—made my blood run hot. It was no wonder she sought escape in her work. And in me.

For a moment—a flicker, a breath—he almost crumbled. His eyes wavered, and the hard lines of his face softened into something like sorrow. But just as quickly, he set his jaw and squared his shoulders.

“We’re done here, Victor. And so is Barbara. She won’t be back to work next week.”

I plastered on an impassive mask. “And what does she think about that?”

“It doesn’t matter what she thinks. She’s my wife, and what I say goes.” He turned toward the door. His shoulders were stiff, and his stride clipped.

Just as he reached for the handle, I spoke. “Frank.”

He paused but didn’t turn, his fingers curled tightly around the brass.

“Don’t make the mistake of underestimating her.” I let my voice drop low—so low he had to strain to hear it. “Or me.”

Frank didn’t say a word. He just turned the handle, opened the door, and closed it behind him—not a slam, not a bang. Just a quiet little click, like the snap of a trigger being cocked.

I stood alone in my office, the fading scent of Frank’s cheap cologne mixing with the lingering smoke from my extinguished cigarette.

I lifted the envelope and tested its weight. The money meant nothing to me, but desperation was a currency all its own, and Frank was throwing it around like a gambler on his last chip. He was a man pushed to his limits, clutching at the last straws of a life he no longer controlled. A life that Barbara, in her restless ambition, had outgrown.

He was full of delusion—his belief that he could simply command Barbara back into the box he had constructed for her. It was almost pitiable. Almost. He still saw the world in terms of ownership and duty, unable to comprehend that the desires and dreams of others might take precedence over his own.

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