28. Luther
Luther
“What the hell was that?” Erin demands, slamming the door behind her.
I was going to talk to her later today, but now is as good a time as any.
I ease back in my office chair and look at her, really look at her. She’s in a stern Hugo Boss suit—all sharp lines, matching her sharp elbows. I always thought she was a professional star because she got things done—but then I was only focused on the result.
The past few days have taught me that it isn’t just about what you achieve, it’s very much about how you achieve it.
Winning is great, but if you do it by crushing people and compromising your integrity, it isn’t very meaningful.
“What do you think that was?” I challenge her.
She laughs, sharp and incredulous. “You humiliated yourself. You undermined your authority in front of the team.”
A flicker of relief runs through me at her words.
A part of me, the one that got fucked because of my dumb decisions, is making me second-guess myself. It’s the result of making a rather huge mistake. I’ve been wondering if I was reacting to Erin merely because Anouk got hurt—but now I know that my father is right.
Erin cannot climb the corporate ladder beyond this point because she’s arrogant and thinks she knows everything. She doesn’t learn from failure—instead, she tries to cover it up, make it someone else’s fault.
Just like all the excuses she had after the board meeting.
I didn’t have time to prepare.
The slides Anouk made were crap.
Vijay interrupted me too much.
“Sit.” I gesture to the client chair across from me.
She lets out a long, trembling breath and sinks into the chair, anger radiating off of her. My admission of fault leaves her nowhere to hide—because if I was wrong, then she was, too, and she won’t accept that.
“What you see as humiliation, Erin, I see as taking responsibility. I see it as a sign of integrity.”
“That’s not how the corporate world works, and you know it,” she snaps. “Executives don’t apologize. They don’t air their mistakes. You tanked your credibility.”
My father once told me about the Peter Principle, that in a hierarchy, every employee tends to rise to their level of incompetence. Erin has risen to hers. She doesn’t have the EQ to get past this point in her leadership journey.
“No, Erin, I didn’t tank my credibility, I clarified it.”
Her eyes narrow. Her nostrils flare. What I used to see as her determination is now just mule-headedness that doesn’t permit her to accept fault, learn from it, or grow from it.
“You’re being an idiot, Luther. You’re throwing away your career over a stuttering analyst.”
I could correct her—tell her this has nothing to do with Anouk and everything to do with my integrity—but Erin isn’t arguing in good faith. Right now, she’s too angry to appreciate nuance.
“She may be a great lay, but—”
“See, you just crossed a line, two of them, in fact. One, by insulting Anouk, and the other, by insulting my relationship with her,” I cut her off calmly, tamping down the flare of temper that raced through me at how she talked about Anouk.
“You’re letting emotion cloud your judgment,” Erin fires back, telling me that she’s still not getting the point. “That woman is not right for you. She’s not polished, she’s not—”
“Enough.”
She falters, surprised by the tone more than the word.
“Anouk is out of bounds.”
Erin scoffs. “I’m trying to protect you.”
“I don’t need it,” I tell her. “I don’t need you.” What I require is people like Vijay and Dot who will stop me from letting my insecurities run amok.
Her mouth opens, then closes again.
“I know you think you know what’s going on between Anouk and me. But you don’t. It’s not a fling, Erin. I’m in love with her.” And she was in love with me until I fucked it up.
Surprise flashes in her eyes. “You’re letting the personal interfere in the professional.”
A dry, cutting chuckle slips past my lips. “We all do that. It’s called being human. Just a while ago, you asked me if we could be more than colleagues, Erin,” I remind her. “How professional was that?”
Her eyes fill, and the hardness in her—the anger—crumbles, leaving only hurt behind.
My parents were right. Again.
Erin’s motives were personal. She wanted to erase Anouk because she wanted me. And I allowed it because I was terrified of letting my father see how unprepared I was.
“You’re choosing her over your future.” There’s a slight tremor in her voice, and I hear the subtext, “You’re choosing her over me.”
“I’m choosing myself.”
She stares at me, searching for the version of me that used to defer, to listen, to let her steer the narrative. When she doesn’t find him, her expression curdles. Her lips curl into a smirk, her eyes blazing with irritation. “You’re making a mistake, Luther.”
“Maybe, but it’s mine to make,” I admit.
She shakes her head. “You disappoint me.”
“Well, Erin, get used to it, because I’m going to be disappointing you some more.”
She looks at me as if I’ve dropped a puzzle in her lap.
“Effectively immediately, you don’t work for me.”
The confusion on her face turns to shock. “Are you firing me?”
“No,” I say quickly, emphatically. “I’m asking you to find another role within the organization—not HelixSphere, but Grant Corp. as a whole. One that doesn’t report to me.”
She fixes me with a sharp, venomous stare. “Because of her.”
“No,” I say evenly. “Because of me. You’re not good for me, Erin. You used my fear and your own agenda, resulting in the clusterfuck that the board meeting was. One you didn’t even take any responsibility for. And I let it happen because it was easier than standing up and being uncomfortable.”
A frustrated sound rumbles out of her. “This is about one presentation—”
“This is about values,” I cut in. “And ours don’t align anymore.”
She recoils, shock flashing in her eyes.
“I’m offering you a full transition package,” I add. “Full pay. Time. Support. But you’re not staying on my team.”
Her eyes search mine, shock giving way to something softer. Desperation. “You’re ruining my career.”
“Erin, I could fire you right away. I have cause. You ran that meeting into the ground. But for the fact that Martin is my Godfather, you think we wouldn’t have lost the Novagene business entirely?”
She bites her bottom lip, eyes clouded. “I…I was helping you.”
“You were trying to push Anouk out,” I counter.
She closes her eyes for a long moment, then opens them and holds my gaze. “She’s not right for you, Luther.”
“This,” I say softly, not looking away from her because I need her to get this message loud and clear, “is exactly why you have to leave.”
It’s nearly seven in the evening by the time I’m done for the day.
I spent several hours with HR working through Erin’s exit and ensuring she has interviews scheduled with other subsidiaries of Grant Corp. I am happy to even give her a recommendation, depending upon the job.
The head of HR at HelixSphere doesn’t think I should do it. According to him, Erin’s attitude about being let go—which is essentially what this is—doesn’t bode well for her future in a large organization.
That’s her problem. I can’t manage her attitude. What I can do is help line up interviews for her—
After that, she’s on her own. I wish her well, but that’s where my responsibility ends.
“Hi,” a voice says from behind me as I punch the down elevator button with more force than needed.
I turn, and my heart goes bang, bang, bang.
Anouk.
I’m standing by the elevator bank, the same spot as months ago, when I asked her to dinner for the first time. Back when everything still felt possible.
“Anouk.” I hesitate, then gesture vaguely at the elevators. “Working late?”
She licks her lips. I wonder if I’ll have the privilege of kissing them again.
God! How am I going to make it through life without her?
She nods almost shyly. “I w-was p-pre-preparing.”
“For the presentation on Friday?”
She tips her chin in acknowledgement.
The elevator beeps. We step inside. I’ve kissed her in this car so many times. After a long day of work, desperate to touch her, have her.
I’m still as desperate, but I no longer have that right.
“Ah…it’s…w-would you…would you join me for dinner?”
Her brows knit, surprised. “Dinner?”
“Yeah.” I am so scared, it’s amusing.
I, Luther Grant, who doesn’t do fear is afraid of being rejected by the woman he loves.
Makes sense.
The elevator dings and settles as the doors open.
She steps out first. I follow her.
She pauses, her back to me for a long moment, and then I hear her say, to my relief, “Okay.”
I walk her bicycle and her a few blocks away to a restaurant we’ve been to before on a day like this, when we’ve been working late.
Then, she looked at me with love, and my heart felt like it would burst with joy. Now, she doesn’t look at me at all, and I’m scared shitless.
We go to Bix, which is tucked behind an unassuming brick facade. It’s my kind of place.
White tablecloths. Low amber light. Burnished dark wood.
A pianist plays old-school jazz near the bar.
HelixSphere feels far away, held at arm’s length.
Anouk orders the Sakura pork chops, served with Pernod-glazed apples, dandelion greens, and fennel cream. I go for the true and tried, the petrale sole meunière, which they do exceptionally well here, with potatoes, pearl onion confit, and brown butter.
She asks me to order the wine that goes with her meal because I insist she should get a glass. “Or I will be drinking alone.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fine.”
The Somm and I decide that for pork chops and fish, the best accompaniment will be the Littorai Pinot Noir from the Russian River Valley.
“It’s precise and restrained,” she assures us in an accent that is distinctly French. “Red cherry, forest floor, just enough earth to make you happy.”
She’s not wrong, but then she knows me well, as I come here a lot.
The wine is elegant without being pretentious. It doesn’t compete with the food…or the conversation. It’s easy drinking on a Wednesday night.
“Are you nervous about the presentation?” I ask even though the last thing I want to do is talk about work and ruin the mood. But she might need my help, and I don’t want to shy away from it because it’s going to make me uncomfortable. I think I’ve put my comfort over hers enough.
“A l-little,” she admits, swirling the wine in her glass and then sniffing it.
“You’re going to be fine,” I try to reassure her.
She sips her wine and sets it down on the table. “T-two days ago, you s-said—”
I place my hand on hers, cutting her off. “Two days ago, I was a scared moron.”
That makes her smile, but it quickly dissipates. She pulls her hands away, slowly, and puts both of them on her lap and looks down.
There’s something fragile about her, as if she’s holding herself together.
“My starling, tell me what you’re thinking?” She’s probably going to kick me for calling her my anything, say that I don’t have the right, but she is my starling, my beautiful, incredible, delicate, brave love.
She surprises me by saying, “I h-heard you.”
I watch her, my thoughts turning over slowly, as I try to discern her meaning. “Heard me?”
She looks up now. “I…b-before we t-talked that day.” She doesn’t have to specify which day; it was the day I fucked my life up. “I heard you talk to Erin.”
I drag a hand down my face and groan as realization strikes. “Fuck!”
Her head moves in a slow, solemn nod. “You didn’t d-defend me when she said I was a risk to your ca-career. You a-agreed w-with her.”
My chest caves like it can’t hold the weight.
The waiter arrives with bread. Refills our wine glasses. Our water glasses. Retreats.
Through it all, I sit speechless.
I thought what I said to her face-to-face was awful, but now she’s telling me she heard Erin and me, and even though I can’t remember word for word what I said, I remember feeling enormous guilt for not defending Anouk to Erin—for believing I couldn’t.
My breath trembles out of me. “I was a coward. I let fear do my thinking and talking for me. I won’t ever do that again.”
She breaks off a piece of bread and eats it slowly.
“I trust you, Anouk. Your work. Your judgment. Your voice. I trusted you then, too. You weren’t the problem.”
“T-then what was?”
“I didn’t trust myself to make the right decisions, so I let myself be influenced. I let my insecurity take over.”
Our food arrives. We eat, making small talk about how good the food is. The old me would just stick to that and not go back to the difficult, the uncomfortable. But I’m not that man any longer.
I lean forward and rest my elbows on the white tablecloth. “For a long time, I confused leadership with control and polish. I believed that making things look right was more important than doing the right things.”
She doesn’t look convinced, but she also doesn’t look like she’s going to throw the wine in my face.
“Erin is leaving HelixSphere.”
Her eyes sharpen. “Tell me that you didn’t do that because of me.”
I frown, confused. “I didn’t. I did it because I don’t want to be led—or be surrounded—by colleagues who mistake apprehension for authority.”
She regards me with suspicion for a moment and then, as if she’s decided something about me, goes back to her pork chop without commenting.
After that, the conversation loosens its grip and wanders—to the project, to books, to nothing in particular, as it once did. The ease of it surprises me. I think it surprises Anouk, too.
After dinner, she doesn’t argue when I ask to take her home.
I load up her bicycle onto the hook of my car and drive to Haight.
It’s like old times, except I’m not holding her hand, and she isn’t smiling at me, looking at me like I’m the best thing in her life.
I am experiencing her loss every single second since she left my office that day. It’s just been a handful of days, but it feels like it’s been forever.
I walk her to her door. She opens it and steps inside and looks at me from the doorway. In the past, I’d have joined her, slept with her, made love to her. Now, I’m a guest who’s not allowed entry.
“Th-thank you for dinner,” she says politely.
“No, Anouk, thank you.”
She hesitates and then shrugs. “G-goodnight, Luther.”
“Sleep well, my starling.”
I know she watches me as I walk to the car. She doesn’t wave when I drive away, but she stays in her doorway, silhouetted by the light from inside her apartment, and somehow that feels like a reward.