Page 132 of Boiling Point
I froze. Not because I didn’t want to hold her. But because I knew if I let even one crack form, the whole dam would break. She pulled back.
“What can I do?”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
I exhaled. “No, I’m not. But falling to pieces won’t help.”
She moved toward the kitchen. “Can I make you some tea?”
I laughed—more bark than mirth. “I’ve trained you well, haven’t I?” I blew out a shaky breath and followed. “But no. This calls for something stronger.” I reached into a cupboard for a glass, but it slipped through my fingers—shattering on the granite like ice on concrete.
“Goddamn it!” My scream hit the cabinets and hung there.
Gabrielle didn’t flinch. She didn’t even blink. She just reached for the dish towel, wet it under the tap, and began gathering the glass with deliberate swipes. The shards caught the light, each one a splintered refraction of the disaster I’d made of everything. She moved with such methodical calm that it became, for a moment, the only thing to watch—the worldshrinking to the woman I loved, a damp cloth, and fractured glass.
I moved in to help, but she blocked me with a single gentle palm.
“I’ve got it,” she said—flat, not cruel.
I stood back and gripped the counter’s edge until my knuckles went white. I didn’t know what else to do with my hands.
“Father’s dead,” I said at last. The words fell into the silence without echo or ceremony.
She didn’t stop wiping. Didn’t look at me, even. Just kept gathering the shards into a tidy pile. “I’m sorry,” she said, soft as cotton, before setting the towel aside and reaching into the cabinet for another glass. “Do you want ice?”
I shook my head, but she was already filling it. The ice cubes hissed and popped as she drowned them in whiskey.
“What else?” she asked as she handed me the glass.
“There are no fewer than fourteen student complaints against me.” The whiskey burned down my throat, but I welcomed the pain. “All utter rubbish, but no one cares.”
“But you’ve already put in your resignation.”
I shook my head. “Doesn’t matter. It’s a witch hunt now. Sloane Cartwright and her father have seen to that.” I drained the whiskey, then set the glass down before I had the chance to hurl it at the wall. “I could have handled one accusation. Maybe two. Butfourteen? There’s a momentum to it. Once people start believing, it becomes real—true or not. That’s the world now. Truth doesn’t matter—only who can shout the loudest.”
She pressed her fingertips to the island, the gesture somehow both delicate and furious. “I wish I could fix it.”
“Not your problem to fix,” I said, sharper than I’d intended. “If anyone’s to blame, it’s me. I should have left when the first round started. No courtesy notice—just out the bloody door. AndI should have seen this whole farce for what it is—a slow-motion guillotine.”
Gabrielle flinched—only a little—but let it pass through her. “What will you do?”
I pushed away from the counter. “First, I have to go back to England for the funeral. I don’t particularly care to…”
“But it’s expected,” she finished.
I nodded.
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“No.” I glanced up quickly. “Don’t misunderstand. In a perfect world, I don’t want you out of my sight, much less in a separate country. But this trip will be as nasty as it gets. And I can’t bear to drag you through that. Not when I’ve already asked more of you than anyone should.”
Surprisingly, she didn’t argue with me.
“What about Page?”
“They’ve already decided what story they want to tell.” I dumped the ice in the sink and refilled the glass—to the brim this time. “It’s not about truth. It’s about optics.” I took a long drink. “Page wants a villain, and I just happen to be available.”
