Chapter 3

A week after the funeral, I went back to Bolton Corp. Not to work, but to pack. I walked into the sleek, minimalist office that had been my second home for years, and it felt like a foreign country.

I was just putting the last of my personal items into a box when the door opened. It was Cohen, looking tan and rested. Behind him, holding a leash, was Hillary. And at the end of the leash was Caesar, the massive Tibetan Mastiff that had killed my mother.

My blood ran cold.

"Jaycee, baby, you're back!" Cohen said, his voice cheerful, as if he'd just returned from a regular business trip. "I was so worried. You weren't answering your phone."

I looked at him, then at the dog, and then back at him. I said nothing.

"I am so, so sorry about your mother," Hillary said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. She gave the leash a little tug. Caesar panted, his tongue lolling out. He was just a dog, an instrument of her malice. My anger wasn't for him. It was for them.

Cohen stepped forward. "Hillary feels just awful about what happened. We came here to apologize properly."

He put his arm around Hillary, who leaned into him, looking up at him with adoring eyes. "He's been so sweet, taking care of poor Caesar. The whole thing was so traumatic for him, you know. He's been off his food."

My gaze was fixed on the dog. The animal that had torn my mother's flesh. And they brought it here. To my office.

"We want to make things right," Cohen said earnestly. "But we can only do that if you're willing to meet us halfway, Jaycee."

An apology with conditions. Classic Cohen.

I finally found my voice. It was steady, devoid of emotion. "Does the dog want to apologize, too?"

The question hung in the air.

Hillary's face tightened. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," I said, turning my full attention to her, "that he's the one who did the biting. Or did you forget that part? Maybe he should get down on his paws and beg for my forgiveness."

Hillary's face flushed a blotchy red. "You're being ridiculous! He's just an animal!"

"Exactly," I said. "And my mother was just a person."

"Jaycee, that's enough!" Cohen snapped, his voice sharp. The mask of contrition had slipped. "You're upsetting Hillary."

He pulled her closer, stroking her hair. "She's been through a lot. She's here, trying to be the bigger person and apologize, and you're attacking her."

A pain, so sharp and familiar, pierced my chest. He was defending her. Again. Even now.

Why did I ever think this would be different? Why did I even for a second think he had come here for me?

Hillary started to sniffle, burying her face in Cohen's chest. "I just wanted to say I was sorry," she whimpered. "I never meant for any of this to happen."

"I know, Hilly, I know," Cohen cooed, glaring at me over her head. "She's just grieving. She's not herself."

Then he looked at me, his face hard. "You owe Hillary an apology. You've been cruel and unfair."

The demand was so absurd, so grotesquely unjust, that I almost laughed. Apologize? To her? The woman who smiled as my world burned down?

"No," I said.

The word was quiet, but it had the force of a gunshot.

"What did you say?"

"I said no."

"Jaycee Shields!" he roared, using my full name for the first time in our entire relationship. It sounded like an accusation. "What has gotten into you? You're being completely unreasonable!"

"Am I?" I asked, my voice still unnervingly calm. "Let me ask you something, Cohen. When they put my mother in the ground, did she seem unreasonable to you?"

He flinched, his face paling. He had no answer.

I turned away from him, picked up my box of belongings, and walked towards the door.

"Where are you going?" he demanded.

I didn't look back. As I passed his secretary's desk, I placed a white envelope on it.

"My resignation," I said to the stunned-looking woman. "Effective immediately."

As a senior vice president, I didn't need his approval to quit. I had that authority. It was one of the few things I had that was truly my own.

I didn't go home. I couldn't bear the thought of being in that house, a space that was once ours and now felt tainted. I checked into a hotel downtown.

My phone buzzed relentlessly. A flood of texts from Cohen.

Jaycee, where are you?

Don't do this. We can talk about it.

I'm sorry. I was an idiot. Please come home.

I love you.

I looked at the messages, one after another, and felt nothing but a profound, weary emptiness.

I turned off my phone.