That’s not what I meant at all, and it makes me bristle. “You said yourself you were in a mess.”
“I just meant it’s taking time to sort it all out. I don’t need your help. And don’t think you can go and speak to your friends at the bank or something and magically pay everything off because I’ll know it was you. I’ll work it out, even if I have to work every minute of every single day for the next year. I was sounding off, letting off steam. I wasn’t asking for your help, and I don’t need it.” Her green eyes blaze. Wow. She’s magnificent, and for a moment I’m speechless.
She puts her cup on the table and gets to her feet. “I think it’s time I went.”
“Chessie…” I rise quickly as she walks away, catch my big feet in the legs of the chair, and trip over. “Wait…”
But she’s striding away. She collects her bag as she passes and heads for the door.
“Chessie!” I jog across the room so I can reach her before she leaves.
She yanks the door open, but I put an arm across the doorway, stopping her from going. “Please,” I say, “I apologize, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
She’s breathing fast. “I don’t need a white knight dashing in on his charger,” she says icily. “Before you think aboutrescuing someone else, I suggest you sort out your own situation, because that looks primed for disaster.”
She bends and picks up her boots, ducks under my arm, and runs down the corridor to the stairs.
I watch her go, because I know no words will be able to convince her to stay, and I can’t physically restrain her.
I go back into the room and slam the door with as much force as I can muster, but it’s fitted with a hydraulic mechanism and closes really slowly, so it provides none of the satisfaction I desire.
Fuck it. Me and my big mouth.
I stand in the middle of the room, hands on my hips. Dammit. I could really do with getting down the gym now and wearing off some of my frustration, but the clock on the wall reveals it’s later than I thought. I told Orson I’d meet him at midday to go over some figures, and there’s no time for a workout.
Gritting my teeth, I pocket my phone, then head out of the room and take the elevator down. I stride through the lobby and out through the gardens toward the main building, walking fast, telling myself it’s because I’m cross with her, but with some surprise I realize it’s not anger I’m feeling but guilt and regret. I insulted her, and I feel bad about that. I’m as bad as my father. She’s trying hard to get back on her feet, and she thought she was offloading to a friend. She wasn’t asking for money, and even though I was trying to be kind, I should have offered in a much subtler way.
“Kingi!”
I glance over and to my frustration see it’s my father, making his way from the car park toward the building. I stop and wait for him. He’s also walking fast—a family trait—and he’s also glowering.
“Kia ora.” After Chessie’s revelation, I’m not really in the mood to talk to him, and my words come out clipped. “Everything okay?”
He blows out a breath. “Not really.”
As we climb the steps, I ask, “Why, what’s the matter?” I’m pretty sure I know. It’s Saturday morning and so he’ll have come straight from home, so it’s bound to be something to do with Mum.
Sure enough, as we walk into the building he says, “That woman drives me insane. I had to get out of the house.”
It’s tough to know what to say during times like this. Publicly, my parents are devoted to one another. They always appear together socially, and there’s never been any hint of scandal. Privately, it’s a different story, and they have a very volatile relationship. They’ve always tried to keep their arguments from me and Marama, but of course it’s impossible not to notice when plates are being thrown or raised voices can be heard on the other side of the house.
It happened so often when I was young that I thought Dad had become immune to feeling bad about it. So I’m surprised now when he runs his hand through his short graying hair and lets out a heartfelt sigh. His gaze finds mine, and he gives me a long-suffering look. “Never get married, son,” he says gruffly. “It’s the road to hell, for sure.”
“That’s encouraging.”
“I mean it. Women are all demons sent here to torture us.”
“You’re not wrong there,” I say gloomily, thinking of Sabrina. My lips twist, but he doesn’t return the smile. He stops outside his office and looks away, his chest rising and falling fast. Shit, he’s genuinely upset.
“You okay?” I ask, concerned. “Was it a bad argument?”
He huffs. Then he says, “Yeah, pretty bad.”
“What was it about?”
He shakes his head. Studies his feet for a bit. Then he says, “She wants a divorce.” He looks up again and meets my eyes.
My heart skips a beat. “Seriously?”