Page 92 of Power

“Yeah. Wrong place, wrong time. Monroe had me stay late to work on the Sutherland proposal. I think he forgot. When I came by to have him sign off on it, he was. . . busy.”

I cover my face with my hands. “Oh, my god. Everyone knows I’m sleeping with my boss?”

“No. Well, I mean, everyone suspects. Most are for it. Monroe has been somewhat tolerable as of late.”

“Oh great,” I groan. “And the others?” I dare ask.

“The others are jealous you’re banging the ‘hot boss.’ Their words, not mine.”

I wipe my hands down my face, my eyes meeting Kyle’s. “Well, I hate to break it to everyone, but we’re done.”

He offers me a sincere smile. “I’m sorry to hear—”

“Don’t be. He’s a jerk and a liar.”

“I could have told you that and saved you the tears. If you want, we can go out. Have a drink.”

The last thing I need is alcohol. “Thanks, but I’m going to head home. There’s also a good chance I won’t be returning to work—for real this time.”

Kyle nods. “Well, here’s my number. If you ever want to get a drink, call me.” He takes my phone and enters his contact info.

“Thanks, I will.” I hug him, and we go our separate ways. When I get to my apartment, I do what I should have done three days ago—type up my resignation letter, effective immediately, and email it to Theresa. I’m sure she’ll be more than happy to push it through. I can’t be here, so I pack an overnight bag and leave. By the time I knock on the door, I’m emotionally broken.

The door opens, and the dam finally bursts.

“Mom. . .”

“Oh, honey, come here.” Cradling me to her chest, she brings me inside. “Gerald! I think you need to get your gun!”

Chapter twenty-six

Theo

Ipacemyoffice,looking at the clock every two seconds. Where the hell is she?

There’s a knock, and I whip around. “You’re late—”

“Oh, I didn’t know you were waiting for—”

“Get the fuck out of my office!” The kid turns around and almost knocks himself out on the door before catching himself and exiting.

She’s late. Again. She’s doing this to get back at me. If I’d known my father had planned to show up at that disaster of a birthday celebration with Alana on his arm, I would’ve left early. It smelled like a setup. A message. And he sure fucking sent it.

I wipe my hand down my face, guilt tearing at me. The way she looked at me. At Alana. If she only knew.You could have told her. She would have understood.She would have left me sooner. I wanted to pull her into my arms and kiss away that sadness I know I caused, and I fucking hate myself. But that bullshit she pulled. . . the kiss. . . I’ll murder that little punk.

I glance at the clock and snatch up my phone, hitting the extension for the receptionist.

“Morning, Mr.—”

“Where the fuck is Miss Evans?”

“Oh god, not this again,” she mutters.

“Not what again?” I snap.

“She. . . um. . . she quit.”

“She didn’t quit.” She knows better.

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