Chapter 20 Unstable Environments #2
I’d rehearsed an answer to this question.
“I knew, if your position were threatened and you thought Tobias was responsible, you would accept my proposal to let me adopt you. I knew Tobias interfering in your life would anger you and lead you to seek revenge against him.” My statements were one-hundred-percent honest and also provided just enough detail and type of information to paint a clear picture of the situation without me self-indulgently explaining additional context for my decisions. Context would only sound like excuses.
What I’d done was ruthless and without virtue, even if the end result meant Samantha inherited the shares of Genetix that should’ve been hers by birthright.
She was silent again. I could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands curled into fists at her sides. I waited for her to say something, anything.
She didn’t.
I swallowed, and found I had to focus in order to keep my voice steady. “Do you have any additional questions for me? I will answer anything.”
She shook her head, slow and methodical. “No. I think you covered everything else this afternoon at the will reading.”
There was a sharp, literal pain in my chest. Her dismissiveness and lack of curiosity hurt me. I wanted to say her name but knew it would sound like an entreaty, which she would likely view as deceitful.
Anything I said beyond the relaying of factual, verifiable information would be discounted, derided, filed under manipulation. Thus, appealing to her now on any personal level, or with any emotion, was not a viable strategy. I knew this.
I forced myself to swallow the hurt silently and reached into my coat pocket.
I pulled out a bank card and flicked it between my fingers.
“This account contains approximately the same amount of money that was in your parents’ bank accounts before the fraud allegations, before the bankruptcy. The pin is your birth year and month.”
She turned slightly. I could decipher the reflection of her profile in the window’s glass, but she didn’t look at me. “You can leave it on the table. And it goes without saying, I think, that I will not be paying you back for any expenses incurred while we lived together.”
I nodded, blinking against a sudden stinging in my eyes, and masked my tone in equanimity.
“I would not accept it, even if you did try to . . . reimburse me.” I placed the card on the table and added, “The security team is with you for another six months, fully paid. And I have arranged for an apartment for you in New York, the lease is paid through the end of next year.”
She nodded, arms still around her middle. “Looks like you covered everything. I assume my things are already out of your apartment?”
“Not yet.”
Samantha seemed to pause, like this information surprised her. Then she turned and looked at me, eyes finally meeting mine, and asked, “Why not?”
“I did not wish to touch or move your things without your consent.”
She barked a laugh, then shook her head. “That’s funny. That’s a good one.”
I felt my jaw clench and grind with the effort it took to remain silent, to not explain myself or my reasoning. I’d led us here. No one but me. And if she wished to laugh in my face, she deserved the distinction of being the only person I would ever allow to do so.
When her laughter tapered, we stood in silence for a long time, simply staring at each other. I wondered what she saw, or if she suspected how carefully I’d planned this interaction.
If I weren’t a villain, this would likely be where we said goodbye. I would apologize for using her and lying to her. I would let her go. This brief interaction would be the finite end of our acquaintance.
That had been the original plan because she was never supposed to care about me, or want me, or even like me.
Obviously, the original plan had changed that first night she’d sleepwalked into my bedroom.
I began bargaining with myself and formulating new schemes, ones where she eventually forgave me and we remained in each other’s lives in some capacity.
I’d studied her preferences, asked her friends for information about her, studied her partialities and dislikes, selected items as gifts I felt certain she would adore, hoping to make myself indispensable.
But that night I’d returned from London, Samantha had annihilated all my assumptions about us, about what might be possible in the future.
I’d never considered the possibility that she might want me.
And so, I’d stopped focusing on how to earn her forgiveness and friendship and began plotting how to keep her.
This meeting—this conversation—was part of my new plan. A necessary, albeit painful, step for us to move forward. Each move orchestrated, each statement prepared. I hadn’t expected it to hurt this much, but letting Samantha go was impossible now.
If my father had just lived for another three months, I might’ve strategized a solution, mapped out how to tell her the truth without losing her in the short term. I might’ve convinced her to love me, to keep me. But the timing was off.
“I leave for the tournament in Rome soon,” I said, and covered my urge to grimace at the banality of my words by glancing down at my shoes.
“I’m sure you’ll win. You always do.” Her emotionless statements were like ice water down my spine.
I had one more thing to say, and then I would leave. I simply needed to speak.
Yet, I couldn’t force my mouth to move. I didn’t wish to leave her, not even for a few days or hours. And the urge to beg, to plead, again pressed forward against my better judgement, sending my heart to my throat. My vision blurred. My breathing grew labored. I felt myself waver.
Please. Please love me back. Please forgive me.
Suddenly, Samantha tore her gaze from mine and turned away. “If there’s nothing else . . .” Giving me no chance to respond, Samantha walked to her bedroom and closed the door behind her with a gentleness that cut more than the violence of a slam ever could.
I stood there in the blue-lit silence, staring through blurred vision at the closed door beyond the corridor, the blood rushing between my ears a dizzying commotion, drowning out all other sounds. Then, without warning, I crumpled to the floor.
I covered my face with my hands and struggled to breathe. I thought I might cry. I didn’t. Just waves of numbness, followed by excruciating pain, over and over.
Eventually, I stood. Feeling lightheaded, I sat on the sofa and clutched my forehead, breathing in deeply through my nose and out through my mouth. Tomorrow, I would begin again. I would stay the course I’d set, employ an improved strategy.
I would win her over in some capacity. Eventually. Because the alternative felt unfathomable.