My pulse pounds as the full scope of his trap becomes clear. He doesn’t need to fire me or remove Sprinkles outright. He can make everything harder, increasing pressure until I break under the weight of accumulated obstacles.
Carson walks to the window, turning his back to me in a casual dismissal of any threat I might pose.
“I appreciate your position, Leif. Truly.” His hands clasp behind his back, the night outlining his silhouette. “Which is why I’ll give you until the party to come to the correct decision. A professional courtesy, if you will, to avoid unnecessary complications.”
The reflection reveals nothing of his face, only the outline of his profile as he stares into the darkness. My own reflection appears smaller than my actual size, diminished by the angle and distance.
“I’m being generous, Leif,” Carson continues, presenting it as a gift rather than a threat. “Giving you sufficient time for proper consideration of all factors. All potential outcomes.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I check the clock with a sinking stomach. Despite all of my best intentions when I came here, I’m late.
Again.
Because of my entanglement with Carson, the gap between the life I want and the one Carson demands I accept continues to grow until it becomes insurmountable.
“I’ve always valued your thoroughness,” he adds, still facing the window. “Your ability to weigh variables and reach sound conclusions. That’s why you’re such an asset to our school.”
Carson turns back to me, and his smile remains in place, but no pretense of warmth reaches beyond his lips.
“Forty-eight hours,” he repeats, taking the long way back to his desk to pass behind me, and I shudder at the feather-light touch of his fingers at my nape. “By Friday morning, I’ll need your confirmation about the faculty function. For planning purposes.”
My hands tremble as I gather my bag from beside the chair. The leather strap chills my palm, the buckle catching on my sleeve as I stand. The tremor travels up my arms to my shoulders, each muscle fighting to maintain control.
“I understand the timeline.”
Carson settles back as I collect myself, his head tilted as if studying a curious specimen. “Excellent. I knew you’d approach this with a rational mind.”
I stride for the door, my knees wooden, my feet too heavy on the carpet.
“One more thing,” Carson adds as I reach for the door handle. “Quinn’s quarterly review committee meets next Monday. As her support coordinator, my support will carry significant weight in their evaluation.”
“I’ll have the documentation prepared,” I say, fingers closing around the cool metal of the door handle.
“I have no doubt.” Carson settles behind his desk, arranging papers. “You left once. I won’t tolerate you repeating that mistake.”
The door opens under my hand, releasing me from the office, but I leave with none of the determination with which I entered.
Saying no didn’t end Carson’s game, it only hardened his resolve to force me back into the box he built for me in Westbrook, before I dared to defy him.
Once again, I overestimated my ability to handle Carson. I thought I could compartmentalize him.
I thought I could show up for Emily.
I was wrong.
Chapter Thirty
Jared
The third candle drowns in its own wax as Emily’s phone screen goes dark in her hand. Her face remains lit, though, a frozen mask of hope collapsing into familiar disappointment that punches me in the gut harder than any physical blow.
“He can’t make it,” Emily says, flat where emotion should be. “He has too much work, so he’s going straight to his hotel.”
I stand by the frosted living room window, my reflection staring back, jaw tight and shoulders rigid. Behind me, the table Emily spent all evening setting for the second night in a row waits with rosemary lamb stew, crusty sourdough bread baked fresh this morning, and roasted winter vegetables arranged on a hand-carved serving platter.
She turns her phone screen down on the counter. “The stew will keep for another day.”
The defeat in her voice raises hackles along my spine. “What was his excuse this time?”