Chapter 20 Unstable Environments
UNSTABLE ENVIRONMENTS
*Andreas*
I’d been standing some distance outside Samantha’s suite for five minutes.
To my left, a tall blue vase loomed above the white marble pedestal like a flowerless cenotaph.
To my right, a row of four security guards spaced at measured intervals along the hallway, each pretending not to see me, each one shifting in place with the periodicity of metronomes.
I loitered exactly fifteen feet from her door.
I’d measured it in paces when I first traversed the distance this morning.
These men worked for me. I’d hired them.
Or, at least, I’d given the order for them to be here.
The gracelessness of my idling in their presence didn’t faze me.
What I had not counted on was the pain in my stomach.
The actual, physical sensation of needing to vomit and being unable to do so.
The last time I’d felt this kind of visceral discomfort had been at my mother’s funeral.
The hour was just past ten, Paris time. Lights in the hotel corridor were dimmed except for the spots immediately above each door. The walls were lined in blue silk the color of sea glass, and it made my black suit and shoes look funereal. I supposed, for this occasion, it was appropriate.
That moment at the will reading, when I’d revealed the truth to the room, played on repeat inside my head.
Specifically, I recalled the way Samantha looked at me.
Not with anger or betrayal. Not even with hurt.
Her gaze exuded emptiness. As though I were a stranger, someone she didn’t know and didn’t wish to.
It had always been possible that Samantha might not forgive me. I’d approached her months ago with this knowledge, but it hadn’t seemed to matter . . . then.
We’d been strangers, more or less. That we would—that I could, and almost from the very first moment I laid eyes on her, grow to care for her again so deeply after fifteen years apart seemed ludicrous.
Standing outside her department building on that early fall morning, she’d unknowingly wrapped me around her finger; and she’d twisted me into knots in that café with effortless ease.
But, it wasn’t until the night she’d showed up at my apartment—bitter and sweet, dressed in black and stilettos—that I suspected I might be dealing with a queen instead of a pawn.
Closing my eyes, I exhaled, fighting the urge to crawl on my knees in front of her and beg for forgiveness, for absolution.
Samantha would not want that from me tonight.
She would despise it, and me, for being weak and inconsistent and continuing to lie, and she’d be right. She’d see through the performance.
Forgiveness wasn’t what I wanted from Samantha.
However . . . Later, perhaps. In the fullness of time, Samantha Jarlston might someday permit me to kneel at her feet, and in that event, I would be more than happy to oblige.
And if she wanted me to be sincerely sorry, if it would make any difference, I would—sincerely—be sorry.
Yet, only if repentance won me her heart in the end.
But first, consequences. Pain and suffering. Which I assumed would culminate in either objects thrown at my head or a slap across the face by her own hand. Perhaps screaming. Possibly tears.
I hope it’s not tears. I had no countermove for tears. No plan, other than to surrender. And I didn’t want to surrender. I wanted her.
Squaring my shoulders, I checked my watch again (10:07 PM), and approached the door, ignoring the attention of her guards.
I lifted my hand to knock and hesitated.
What if she was already asleep? She slept fitfully under the best circumstances.
I didn’t wish to wake her. But I was also not a coward.
Cowardice was a learned behavior, a vestige of too many years in the company of men who mistook ruthlessness for virtue.
Whereas, I was ruthless. But did not consider myself virtuous. Obviously.
I knocked, three precise raps, then braced myself.
The door opened after four seconds and Tara appeared, her face unreadable. She wore the same suit as earlier, but had lost the tie, and her arms were folded across her chest.
She looked at me and said, “She’s in her room.” No pleasantries.
“Is she awake?” My voice came out gravelly. I was not surprised. I’d been forced to shout over Henrik when the Police Nationale had arrived to take him into custody for aggravated assault against our father’s favorite lawyer.
Tara shrugged. “She is not asleep. I’m going to take a walk. Text me when you’re done.”
She stepped aside to allow me entry and, as I passed her, I caught the faintest trace of—what? Pity? Disgust? I had the suspicion Tara wished to maim me, and also that she would have been entirely justified in doing so.
Tara closed the door to the hallway, leaving me in the darkness and silence of the suite’s entryway. I took two deep breaths and walked into the suite proper.
The suite had two bedrooms, and the main bedroom was at the end of a short corridor lined with mirrors and low, blue-lit sconces.
I walked slowly, careful to keep my steps light.
Sam’s door was ajar, and from the crack of it, I could see the square of bright light from her laptop screen, and her form hunched in bed, shoulders up, head down.
I stood there for a moment, staring at her, the way her long hair curled at the edges, the angle of her jaw above the collar of an old sweatshirt.
She scrolled with one hand and picked at her thumbnail with the other, something she did when she felt overwhelmed.
A tell, I speculated, she wasn’t aware of.
Abruptly, she glanced up and spotted me in the doorway, our gazes clashing. Yet, her expression didn’t alter at all.
I knocked softly, pushing the door open wider, and said, “May I come in?”
She closed the laptop with a snap. “I’ll come out.” Her voice rang neutral and monotone.
I retreated to the sitting room and waited for her to appear.
This was not a sensation I was familiar with.
In chess, you lost, and then you immediately began analyzing the defeat for lessons, weaknesses, patterns.
I had never been checkmated in love before, the irony being that I’d checkmated myself. The rules were unfamiliar.
Samantha entered the sitting room and stood ten feet removed from me, hands pushed into the front pouch pocket of her sweatshirt, hair falling around her shoulders. She regarded me with what I wanted to believe was blankness, but in reality was probably contempt.
“I know it’s late,” I said.
She didn’t move, didn’t nod. Just waited.
“Before we discuss anything else,” I said, “I have something important to tell you.”
She blinked, her features softening just a little, eyes seeming to spark to life. “Go on.”
I exhaled, surprised at my own nervousness, but forged ahead. This confession would, hopefully, be the worst part. “I am the one who froze the funding for your PI, Dr. Hauser, back in November. That was not Tobias, that was me.”
She stared at me for a beat. Her face went slack. I recognized that she required a moment to process this news and I braced myself for her reaction to my manipulation. Please, no tears. Anything but tears.
But Samantha didn’t cry. She smiled. It was a bitter, twisted thing, and it made me wish she’d cried instead.
Then, she laughed, short and sharp, and turned, walking to the window and wrapping her arms around herself. She stood with her back to me, looking out at the city.
“After what happened today,” she said, her tone steady, almost academic, “I wondered if it had been you. Tobias told me, when he came to see me that second time after Thanksgiving with a bribe, that he hadn’t done anything to me yet.
And then, when you and I went to that wine bar, you asked me if I wanted you to get rid of Dr. Nieminen.
It struck me as strange at the time, but I never would’ve suspected you until today. ”
The urge to apologize, or at least to explain myself, bombarded my better judgment. But I knew both of those pathetic displays would only make her hate me more. I stood there in silence, hands at my sides, breathing through the sting of it.
After a long pause, she said, “You did tell me once that you were not a good person. I should have believed you.”
I gritted my teeth. The memory of saying those words, of believing myself to be the villain, was suddenly, acutely real.
I was a villain. I’d almost let her put her mouth on me because I’d wanted it more than I’d wanted my next breath in that moment.
I’d wanted her so badly, I’d almost let it happen.
I didn’t regret stopping her. If I hadn’t stopped her, I would truly be a weak-willed coward.
And I’d hate myself just as much as she hated me now.
Telling her, as she lowered to her knees, that I wasn’t a good person, didn’t absolve me of any sins.
But absolution wasn’t my goal. What good would that do me?
I didn’t want her to move on, I wanted her stuck, just as I was stuck.
Truthfully, pathetically, I wanted her even if she hated me.
Even if she never forgave me. And I would settle for any part of Samantha, at any time.
That was now my goal. A sliver of her attention. A bone thrown in my direction at her discretion. Given my sins, just that would be a miraculous victory.
Her back still to the room, she cleared her throat and said, “I think I know why, but tell me anyway. Why did you have Dr. Hauser’s funding frozen?”