“Marcella…”
The line dies in my ear.
I stay there, phone to my chest, breath stuck somewhere between wanting and regret.
This is what it feels like to almost have a chance…
And lose it.
seventeen
Marcella
Three Weeks Later
Threeweekslater,thestorm outside matches the one I’ve kept buried.
Rain lashes the glass walls of the conference room we’ve occupied all day.
Gray light dulls everything but the tension in the room.
I have everything I need for a record-breaking settlement.
Relief should feel like a win.
Instead, I watch Seamus from the corner of my eye, trying to pretend today is routine. Standard. Nothing to make my pulse jump.
Ethan leans back in his chair, arms behind his head, a satisfied smile tugging at his mouth. “I’m telling you,” he points at Seamus with his thumb, “if I ever get sued, I want this guy to sit for my deposition.”
Seamus rolls his eyes, his expression casual in a way I haven’t seen since I met him.
“Glad I could impress the audience,” he says dryly.
I sip the last of my coffee—lukewarm now. Doesn’t matter. I need something to occupy my hands, I’m too keyed up.
I should be celebrating too. He nailed it. Steady, precise, and careful with every word. Not too rehearsed. Not too defensive. Enough righteous frustration when he talked about what happened to Miranda.
He didn’t even need to throw Caldwell under the bus outright. Anyone with a brain could ascertain who made the final decisions in the OR.
Best of all? Caldwell didn’t show up.
The egomaniac couldn’t be bothered. Instead, he let his attorney, Luther Young—with his smug, clinical questions—handle everything.
Seamus held his own and then some.
Ordinarily, after a deposition, I’d be gone right after. This afternoon I stayed to get more time with him by pretending to need a post-depo debrief.
Ignoring the fact I’ve spent the last few weeks picturing the way his hands would look as they skimmed my body. The way his blue eyes bored into mine when we kissed.
Hearing the desperate tone of his voice when he told me he masturbated thinking about me.
How I nearly cracked right open when he promised to prove I was beautiful.
Seamus hasn’t brought any of it up since.
Does he still feel the same way?
It’s hard to know. We’ve exchanged a few emails. Strictly professional. No innuendo. No flirting. Not even a winking emoji. I told myself it’s what I wanted. What I needed. We’re working together. He’s not my client, but I’m relying on him. On his memory. His insight. His testimony.
