Chapter 30 Nico
Nico
Sunday evening. Two days since the board meeting that should have felt like a victory.
Martin’s gone. Stripped of his board seat, facing legal action.
The foundation restructuring is approved. My CEO position is secure. At least for now.
And yet.
Bree has been different since Friday. During sex on Friday and Saturday nights she was present but not present. Her body responded the way it always does, arching into me, her breath catching when I hit the right spot.
But something behind her eyes stayed distant. Like she was performing intimacy instead of feeling it.
I thought she’d be happy. I gave her credit in front of everyone. I publicly acknowledged what she’d done for this company, and for me. I made Martin look like the scheming piece of shit he actually is.
So why does she feel further away than ever? Is it because I haven’t given her an official promotion yet? Haven’t made her more than my secretary? Or is it something else?
I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t focus. Couldn’t stop replaying every interaction from the past forty eight hours, looking for what I missed, or the moment I fucked up.
She left early today to go “shopping with the girls.” Whatever that means.
Anyway, around seven, I finally gave up torturing myself and told Indira to drive me to the office, hoping to catch up on the mountain of work that’s accumulated while I was busy fighting for my professional life.
The building is quiet on Sundays, the parking garage empty. The executive elevator hums upward, and I use the silence to scroll through emails I’ve been ignoring.
The elevator opens onto the twenty eighth floor and I head toward my office.
That’s when I hear it.
A sound that stops me dead.
Crying. Not the quiet, controlled kind that people try to hide. This is broken and raw, complete with heart-wrenching sobs. The kind of crying that arises from somewhere deep and wounded.
And it’s coming from Bree’s desk.
I round the corner and freeze.
She’s hunched over her workspace, papers scattered around her, shoulders shaking. Her hair is down, loose and messy. In the dim evening light filtering through the windows, she looks small and fragile.
I’ve never seen her like this.
It kills me.
So much for “shopping with the girls.”
“Bree?”
She startles so hard she nearly falls off her chair. Her head snaps up and I see her face. Red eyes. Tear tracks on her cheeks. Mascara smudged underneath her lashes.
“Nico.” She scrambles to wipe her face with the back of her hand. “I didn’t know you were coming. I thought I’d have the building to myself.”
“What’s wrong?” I press.
“Nothing.” She’s already trying to rebuild her composure, straightening papers that don’t need straightening. “I’m fine. Just had a moment.”
“It’s not fine.” I cross the space between us. She shrinks back slightly, and that tiny flinch sends something dark and protective coiling through me.
I crouch beside her chair so I’m at eye level. This close I can see the tremor in her hands. The way her breath keeps catching. Whatever this is, it’s not a small thing. This is something that’s been buried deep, and it’s finally clawing its way out.
“Talk to me,” I say quietly. “What happened? Who hurt you?”
“It’s really nothing.” She laughs humorlessly. “I came in to get some work done on the foundation documents. Wanted to review the university partnership section. And I found this article.”
She gestures at a printed page on her desk. From a foundation journal. Something about prosthetic research partnerships with academic institutions.
“I don’t understand,” I tell her. “What about the article upset you?”
“It’s not the article.” Her voice cracks. “It’s just. Reminded me of something.”
I wait.
“From grad school,” she continues, each word dragged out like it physically hurts to speak. “My thesis advisor. Dr. Lawrence Kendrick.”
Kendrick. The name she mentioned before. Ancient history, she’d called it. The thing that made the office gossip cut so deep. The name she’d compared to me when the blackmail scandal broke.
I’ve been waiting for this. Hoping she’d trust me enough to tell me the full story.
But now that the moment is here, watching her body tense and her eyes go somewhere far away and painful, I wish I could spare her from having to say more.
But the only way to deal with this problem is to let it out, and air it to the world.
I don’t prod her. Instead, I remain silent.
If she’s going to speak about this, it has to be on her own terms. When she’s ready.
She’s quiet for a long moment. Then, finally, the story pours out.
“He picked me as his research assistant during my first first year,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “Told me I was the most brilliant student he’d had in years. That I was destined for great things. That he would open doors for me. I didn’t mean to get so... close to him.”
She smiles sadly. “It started small. Coffee to discuss my thesis. Then drinks after seminars. Then dinners because we were working late and he was hungry and wouldn’t I join him? His office, Nico. Always his office. Door closed. Nine, ten, eleven at night.”
I stay silent. Let her talk.
“He made sure I didn’t connect with other faculty. Other advisors. He’d say things like ‘they won’t understand your work the way I do’ or ‘you don’t need their input, you have me.’ And I believed him. I thought I was special.”
Her hands are shaking. She clasps them together.
“I was twenty-four. He was forty-two. Married. My professor.” She takes a shuddering breath. “There was a night. Late. We’d been drinking wine and he—”
She stops. Starts again.
“I don’t even know what to call it. A kiss.
Maybe more. I didn’t say no clearly enough.
Or maybe I did and he didn’t care. I was confused and flattered and terrified of losing his support.
I’ve spent five years trying to convince myself it was nothing.
That maybe I wanted it. That maybe I gave him the wrong impression. That I caused it somehow.”
“Bree—”
“When I finally asked for a different advisor, he turned on me.” Her voice becomes distant.
“Suddenly my work wasn’t good enough anymore.
He told everyone I seduced him.” Her laugh is bitter and broken.
“That I developed an inappropriate fixation and became vindictive while he always maintained professional boundaries. He savaged my thesis. My committee suddenly had concerns about my work quality. Other professors and students heard I was difficult, unstable.”
My hands have curled into fists. I force them to relax.
“I barely graduated,” she continues. “My letters of recommendation were lukewarm at best. He used his connections to poison the well... my applications were rejected for every position I applied for in the nonprofit world, thanks to him. Two years, Nico. Two years of temping and admin work and wondering if I was crazy. If maybe I really did give him the wrong impression. If it was my fault.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” I state slowly.
“Part of me still wonders.” She’s crying again, quieter now. “And the worst part? He’s still there. Still tenured. Still mentoring female grad students. Still doing this to other women, probably. And I can’t do anything about it because who would believe me?”
I take her hand. Her fingers are cold.
“Seeing that article,” she whispers. “University partnerships. It brought it all back. And I just. I couldn’t.”
She breaks off, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks.
I kneel there holding her hand, and a dark, cold clarity settles in my core. The same clarity I felt when I knew exactly how to take Martin apart.
“What university.” My voice comes out controlled.
Bree’s eyes widen slightly. She knows that tone. “Nico.”
“What university,” I repeat. If she won’t tell me, I’ll pull it from her resume.
She hesitates. Her hand tightens in mine.
“Columbia,” she finally says. “Communications and Nonprofit Management program. But this is my story. I don’t want you fighting my battles. I just want to ignore him and move on. That’s what I’ve been doing for five years. That’s what I’ll keep doing.”
I don’t answer her.
“Promise me you won’t do anything.” Her gaze is fierce now, and desperate. Almost wild. “Promise me, Nico.”
I look at her tear-stained face. The vulnerability and the steel underneath. The woman who’s been carrying this weight alone for five years because someone with more power than her decided to weaponize it against her.
That sick fuck destroyed her career because she said no. He made her believe she was complicit in her own victimization.
He took five fucking years of her life.
And he’s still out there. Doing it to other women while the system looks the other way.
“I promise,” I lie.
She searches my face, then nods, seems to believe me. Some of the tension drains from her shoulders.
“Thank you.” She wipes her eyes again. “I’m sorry you had to see me like this. I thought I was past the worst of it, but it still creeps up on me, you know? From time to time.”
I nod. “Trauma always resurfaces when you least expect it. Triggers hide in everyday things, waiting to ambush you.”
I would know.
“Come back to the penthouse?” I ask. “Let me take care of you.”
She nods. “Yeah. Okay.”
I help her gather her things. Walk her to the elevator with my hand on the small of her back. Text my driver that we’re coming down.
The drive to Tribeca is quiet. Bree curls into my side, exhausted from the emotional purge. By the time we reach the penthouse, she’s half asleep.
I get her upstairs. Into bed. Hold her until her breathing evens out and I’m certain she’s actually unconscious.
Then I slip out of the bedroom and close the door quietly behind me.
In my home office, I pull out my phone.
The first call is to Larissa Koh, my General Counsel.
She answers on the second ring despite the weekend hour. “Nico? Everything okay?”
“I need you to find me a firm that specializes in institutional misconduct investigations. Universities. Title Nine violations. Patterns of harassment. The best. Money is no object.”
A pause. “May I ask what this is regarding?”
“Not yet,” I grit out. “I’ll brief you tomorrow. Just find me the firm tonight.”
“Understood.”
The second call is to Callahan, who’s probably still in the parking garage with Indira. “Sir?”
“I need a background check. Dr. Lawrence Kendrick. Professor at Columbia University, Communications and Nonprofit Management program. Everything you can find. Quietly.”
Another pause. “Timeframe?”
“Yesterday,” I growl.
“Understood, sir.”
I hang up and stand at my office window, looking out at Manhattan spread below. All those tiny lights. All those tiny lives.
Somewhere in this city, that fucker Kendrick is sleeping soundly in his bed. Secure in his tenure. Protected by an institution that’s decided his reputation matters more than the women he’s destroyed.
He has no idea what’s coming.
No fucking idea.
When I was fifteen, men broke into my home and left me scarred for life. I was alone. No one stopped them. No one ever found them. I’ve spent sixteen years unable to go back and change what happened to me.
But I can stop this fucker.
And I will.
He’s never going to harm Bree, or anyone else, again.