Chapter Twenty-Eight #3
be insane not to take up the opportunity, she realized with a breathtaking wave of grief at the thought. She dragged her eyes
to Ross’s, dreading his response.
“That is kind but unnecessary,” Ross was telling Henrietta, still with that level, quiet, dangerous tone. “I am more than
adequately represented by Petra here. Please allow me . . .”
He gestured to Petra, who shot out of her chair and held her hand out to Henrietta, almost as if she had been electrocuted
into action.
Henrietta studied Petra’s hand suspiciously and then diverted her gaze to assessing Petra from head to toe, her expression
indicating she was entirely unimpressed with what she saw. And then, something dawned, and a sickly, patronizing smile spread
across her face.
“Little Miss Malaprop, no less,” she sneered. “The woman who broke the internet ‘bigging up’ her clients.” Hatefully, Henrietta
used the air quotes gesture to express her opinion of Petra’s talents, or lack of.
“Darling, it’s important you and I talk about this manuscript of yours before anything else happens that can’t be undone,” she continued briskly, pointedly turning her back on Petra, who had by now dropped her hand back down to her side, “and—by all means—show our contract to—” She glanced at Petra disparagingly, but seemed unable to produce a label of any sort, settling for a dismissive hand gesture.
“Before you sign anything . . . but this is just little old me.” She widened her eyes in a parody of innocence.
It looked grotesque, thought Petra. Surely the woman no longer held any power over him? Did she?
“Darling, remember who I am to you,” purred Henrietta. “Remember what we have, you and I.”
“Had,” corrected Ross.
Henrietta’s face fell for a microsecond, followed by a flash of anger, and then she regained her savoir faire. “Ross,” she
said more firmly, like a labrador owner calling her recalcitrant dog to heel, “I don’t know what’s been going on with you,
and I don’t know what—this—is all about,” she waved contemptuously at Petra. “If you want to reestablish yourself in the literary world, then let me
be clear: You. Need. Me. I made you, and I . . .” She gave him a forbidding look and then glanced again at Petra. “I made you,” she repeated, raising an eyebrow and nodding at him meaningfully.
Her inference was clear: She made him. She could destroy him.
Later that night, Petra would replay this conversation on a loop in her mind’s eye.
It seemed to her that time—in that dining room—had slowed to a standstill.
She was acutely aware of the interest of the other diners, the sweet sea breeze wafting gently in through the French window, bringing with it the smell of ozone and fresh air, mingling with the roasting meats and frying garlic emanating from the kitchen.
And then, all her other senses seemed to fall away, and her entire universe was this single moment when Henrietta commanded Ross’s obedience.
Petra gazed up at Ross, and then at this woman who had had such power over Ross five years before.
The woman who had done so much damage to him.
“Come to my room, my darling,” murmured Henrietta, triumphant at something she perceived in Ross’s face. “We have so much catching up to do.”
Ross transferred his gaze with apparent effort from Henrietta to Petra, and the look of utter bleakness and despair made Petra
gasp in pain. Wordlessly, she queried, but he just closed his eyes and gave her a tiny shake of the head.
“Let me . . .” he began quietly. “I need to . . .” he began again, but swallowed, apparently unable to continue, his eyes,
fixed on Petra’s face, full of pain and confusion.
Henrietta knew then that she had won, Petra told herself later. It was the moment when she tilted back her head and looked
disparagingly at Petra from under lowered lids.
Feeling that hours had passed as Ross waited for her response, Petra gathered herself. It was the hardest thing she had ever
done, but why compound the humiliation by making a scene? What would be the point in that?
“Of course,” she said crisply, putting down her napkin. “You have my number, Ross. Call me when you need me.”
“Don’t hold your breath, darling,” Henrietta snarked over her shoulder as she threaded her arm through Ross’s and bore off her prize in the direction of the lifts.
In her triumph she failed to even acknowledge Jess and her other dinner mates, who sat looking stupefied, much—Petra thought—as she must look herself.
For a very long time after Ross and Henrietta had left, Petra sat frozen, staring unseeing through the French windows and
out to sea. For the first time since her very early days in Portneath, she felt bereft, alone, and very, very small.
Eventually, after what might have been just minutes but felt like a lifetime, Jess came over and made Petra join her, Aiden,
and their guest for dinner. It was a convivial meal, considering, but—as she chatted and even joked—Petra felt she was observing
herself at a distance, as if some other woman was asking sociable questions and making polite responses to the answers.