Chapter 8 Corin
Corin
The clinic office is already warm when Amara walks in Tuesday morning. I’m reviewing contract files at the steel desk, but I look up the second I hear her footsteps.
She looks a lot better. The fever flush is gone. Her skin has that pale, normal color instead of the flushed red from yesterday. The dark circles under her eyes are lighter.
Still there, but lighter.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
She sets her canvas tote on the desk and pulls out her legal pad. “A lot better. Thank you for taking care of me yesterday.”
I shrug, uncomfortable with the gratitude. “You needed help.”
“Still,” she insists. “You didn’t have to stay all day.”
“Yeah, I did.” The words come out before I can stop them.
She blinks, then tucks hair behind her ear.
I’m conflicted again.
Always fucking conflicted around her.
Part of me wants to close the distance between us and kiss her until she stops thanking me for basic human decency.
The other part knows that’s exactly the kind of move that would wreck whatever fragile trust we’re building.
So I do neither.
Instead I tap the laptop screen. “We’ve got a town meeting this afternoon. Community hall.”
Amara’s attention shifts immediately. Lawyer mode activated. “What time?”
“Two o’clock,” I reply. “Feeling up to presenting the legal framework?”
She nods. “I’ll need to prep visual aids. Print handouts. Do we have a projector?”
“We do,” I confirm.
“All right,” she says. “Let’s get ready.”
The community hall is packed.
I’m standing at the back, shoulder against the wall, watching Amara Khan dismantle predatory lease clauses like she’s cross-examining a hostile witness.
This is what competence looks like.
And I’m absolutely wrecked by it.
She’s wearing a pale blue linen dress that does absolutely nothing to hide those curves. The ones I memorized on New Year’s Eve. The ones I’ve been trying not to think about every goddamn day since.
Not working.
She gestures to the projection screen, which is currently filled with a family contract.
“Section twelve point three,” she says, pointing to a highlighted clause. “The developer reserves the right to reassess property value annually based on prevailing market conditions. Except there’s no definition of what constitutes market conditions.”
An older woman in the front row raises her hand. Mrs. Rolle. I met her at last week’s potluck.
“So they can just raise our rent whenever they want?” Mrs. Rolle asks.
“Precisely,” Amara confirms. “And if you can’t pay, this termination clause here gives them the right to evict with thirty days notice. You lose the land your family has leased for generations because someone decided they want to build a resort.”
The room erupts with angry voices. Amara lets it happen for exactly ten seconds, then raises a hand.
Silence.
Just like that.
I’m peripherally aware of Thorne positioned near the rear exit. Ready to step in if things get too out of control.
“The good news,” Amara continues, “is that these clauses are legally challengeable. We have three strategies.” She ticks them off on her fingers. “Unconscionability based on unequal bargaining power. Reformation based on mutual mistake. And statutory violations under the amended Property Act.”
Someone in the middle row asks about costs. Amara doesn’t miss a beat.
“The Saelinger Foundation is funding this pilot program,” she says, and I feel every eye in the room turn toward me. “Which means legal representation is free. You pay nothing. We handle everything.”
I keep my expression neutral. This is the part where people usually ask what I’m getting out of it. The VC in me has run over this scenario a thousand times. Philanthropy is always transactional in their minds. Nobody believes in altruism anymore.
Can’t say I blame them.
The door at the side of the hall opens. A woman in her thirties walks in holding a notebook and a phone. She’s got that look. The one that says press.
Fuck.
Thorne’s phone buzzes. I feel mine vibrate a second later. I glance down at the screen.
Her name is Clara Bosch, freelance reporter for the Bahamas Tribune. Legit credentials, no red flags.
Below that, I see a second message from Liora, General Counsel for Saelinger Foundation.
Legal team found two more forged emails in the archive. Metadata inconsistencies match previous samples. Xavier’s getting sloppy.
Finally. Proof we can use.
But not enough yet. Not nearly enough to go public.
I pocket the phone and watch Clara find a seat near the aisle. She’s already taking notes.
She’s going to want to talk to me.
My first instinct is to ghost. Let my PR team in Manhattan handle this remotely. Issue a statement. Control the narrative from a distance.
Except.
Amara glances at me. Just once. She’s realized Clara is press, too. Her eyes meet mine across the room and I read the question there as clearly as if she’d said it aloud.
Are you going to run?
I should.
Five years ago I would have.
But five years ago I didn’t have Amara Khan looking at me like I’m a portfolio she’s deciding whether to divest from entirely.
I stay.
Amara wraps up her presentation and explains the next steps. She invites families to schedule individual consultations at the clinic.
The crowd starts to disperse, clustering in small groups, talking in low voices.
Clara Bosch makes a beeline for me.
Because of course she does.
“Mr. Saelinger,” she says, extending a hand. “Clara Bosch, Bahamas Tribune. Can I ask you a few questions about the foundation’s involvement here?”
I shake her hand and force a welcoming smile. “Sure.”
“The Saelinger Foundation has been under some scrutiny recently regarding fund allocation,” Clara says, flipping open her notebook. “Can you comment on how you’re ensuring transparency with this pilot program?”
Every instinct I have screams don’t engage.
This is a trap.
She’s fishing for a scandal angle.
One wrong word and it’s front page news, not just here, but in NYC.
But Amara’s still watching me from the front of the room. She’s talking to Mrs. Rolle but her attention is split.
Testing me.
Fuck.
I finger a coin in my pocket. It’s an old habit.
“We’re implementing full financial audits for all foundation-funded programs,” I tell her. “Independent third-party reviews. Quarterly public reports. The transparency arrangements are outlined in the grant agreements.”
Clara scribbles something down. “And the allegations that a former board member misappropriated funds?”
There it is.
The kill shot.
Xavier.
I could deflect.
Say it’s under investigation.
Refer her to my legal team.
Instead I say, “A former board member made decisions without proper oversight. We discovered the irregularities during an internal audit. We’re cooperating fully with regulators to ensure accountability.”
It’s not the full story. Not even close.
But it’s more than I’ve told anyone outside my inner circle.
Clara’s eyebrows rise slightly. She wasn’t expecting a straight answer.
“So you’re taking responsibility for the oversight failure?” she presses.
Fuck.
I suppose I am.
“The foundation operates under my leadership,” I reply. “So ultimately, yes. I take responsibility.”
Clara asks a few more questions. I answer them without violating confidentiality. Keep it factual and measured.
When she finally thanks me and lets me be, I feel like I’ve just survived a shark attack.
Thorne materializes at my elbow. “She’s gone. Keon’s got the SUV ready whenever you are.”
I nod. “Give me five.”
Amara finishes with Mrs. Rolle and walks over. She’s got that look on her face. The one that says we’re about to have a conversation I’m not going to enjoy.
“You hate the spotlight,” she says quietly.
Not a question.
“Yeah,” I admit.
“But you stayed anyway.”
I meet her eyes. “Yeah.”
“Why?” she asks.
Because I hate failing you more.
The words are right there.
On the edge of my tongue.
Ready to wreck whatever fragile professional boundary we’ve been pretending to maintain.
“Because I’m trying to be better.” It’s not the full truth, but not a complete lie, either.
Her expression softens.
She doesn’t respond. Instead, she just turns and walks toward the exit.
I follow.
Outside, the late afternoon sun is unseasonably warm for January, but not uncomfortable. Thorne’s already moving toward the SUV. Keon’s got the engine running, windows down to catch the breeze.
We climb into the back seat. Amara on one side, me on the other. She accepted my offer to carpool earlier, since we’ll be returning to the clinic before heading home anyway.
Keon pulls out onto the main road.
For the first five minutes, neither of us speaks.
Then Amara says, “What are you really running from?”
I finger the coin in my pocket again. Turn it between my thumb and forefinger.
I could lie.
Should lie.
But after watching her eviscerate predatory contracts for an hour, I figure she deserves something closer to the truth.
“A board member made decisions I should have stopped,” I say carefully.
She waits for me to elaborate.
I don’t.
“That’s it?” she asks. “That’s all you’re going to tell me?”
“It’s all you need to know for now,” I reply.
She turns to look out the window. “Okay.”
No pressing. No demands. Just acceptance that I’m not ready to say more.
It’s more grace than I deserve.
Keon pulls up to the clinic. We’ve got another hour of work before the day ends. Contract reviews for three more families.
We climb out of the SUV and walk back into the clinic side by side.
Marisol looks up from her desk. “How’d it go?”
“Good,” Amara says. “We’ve got six families ready to schedule pro bono consultations.”
“Seven,” I correct. “Mrs. Rolle’s daughter wants to review her lease, too.”
Marisol beams. “This is exactly what we needed. Thank you both.”
We head back to the office. The small room with concrete walls and a single steel desk.
The space where we’ve spent the last week sitting in, elbow to elbow, trying to pretend it doesn’t mean anything.
Because it fucking doesn’t!
Amara sets her canvas tote on the desk and pulls out her legal pad.
I boot up the laptop and pull up the foundation files.
Outside, the sun is starting to set. Orange light filters through the louvers, cutting geometric patterns across the concrete floor.
We’ve got work to do.
But for this one moment, sitting across from Amara in a converted bungalow on an island thousands of miles from the life I built in Manhattan, I think maybe I’m finally doing something that matters.
Even if it doesn’t fix the past.
Even if she never fully forgives me.