It doesn’t surprise me one bit that Jordan and his lawyer are late to our 6:30 p.m. meeting at Pete’s office. The guy couldn’t get his head out of his own ass with a crowbar.

Pete and I sit at the mahogany conference table in his sixth-floor office on Sansome Street in silence. Though we both expected Jordan to back out of signing the non-disclosure agreement, we expected him to do it earlier in the day. Despite the text messages he’s sent saying he and his lawyer Daniel Ulrich are on their way here from the airport, I’m highly skeptical they’ll even show.

“If they’re not here by seven, I’m out of here,” I declare, leaning back in the leather swivel chair.

Pete nods as he undoes the buttons on his wrist cuffs and begins rolling up his sleeves. “They’ll show up. Dan knows the gravity of the situation. He won’t let Jordan back out.”

I roll my eyes. “I highly doubt Jordan gives a shit about anything but money.”

“Exactly!” Pete agrees enthusiastically. “They’re probably just sitting in their car waiting for you to agree to a settlement.”

I glare at him. “He raped me and I’m supposed to pay him? Do you know how fucking sick that makes me?”

Pete’s thin face is etched with regret, but he doesn’t pull any punches with his words. “You’re not paying him because he raped you, Ben. You’re paying him because he’s blackmailing you with something that can hurt someone you care about.”

I shake my head and stare straight ahead at the glass wall separating the conference room from the corridor.

“I know it seems counterproductive to give him anything he asks for when you did nothing wrong,” Pete continues, adjusting his gold-rimmed eyeglasses. “But he’s losing his biggest client, which means he’s losing a ton of money by signing this NDA. Don’t make the mistake of thinking he’s going to take that lying down. Be smart about this, Ben.”

I shake my head. “I’m so fucking tired of trying to be smart about this. I just want this piece of shit out of my life for good.”

“Then, give him this one thing.”

I let out a long, seething breath. “Fine. But I’m not giving him five mil. That’s fucking ridiculous. One-point-five mil is as high as I’ll go.”

After texting Jordan our settlement offer, he and his lawyer arrive within ten minutes.

“Sorry for my tardiness,” Jordan apologizes, as if any of us believe he wasn’t sitting in his car waiting for me to offer him some money.

“Save your apologies,” I reply. “I just want to get this stuff signed and get the fuck out of here.”

Jordan’s eyebrows shoot up as he undoes the button on his sports coat and sits across from me. “Important plans tonight? Playing house with your wifey?”

“Don’t you fucking mention her,” I warn him in a low growl.

Jordan rolls his eyes as his attorney shoots him a look. “I’m pretty busy myself,” he continues as Pete hands me a pen to sign the settlement agreement first. “I’m juggling a few projects. That’s why we were late. Can’t be at two places at the same time. Or, as some might say, you can’t dance at two weddings at the same time.”

Pete’s paralegal takes the pen and settlement agreement from me and hands it to Jordan.

“What did you say?” I ask, but Jordan doesn’t reply. “What the fuck did you just say, Jordan?”

A slimy smile spreads across his lizard-face. “I said you can’t dance at two weddings at the same time.” He signs the agreement and looks me in the eye. “I’m sure Charley is going to have a great time reliving the past tonight. Maybe it will help give her some inspiration for your wedding.”

I lunge at Jordan across the table and the paralegal gasps as Jordan falls backward in his chair, breaking the glass wall separating the conference room from the corridor. Only one thought is running through my mind: Kill the rat bastard. Kill him.

I coil his silver tie around my left hand to hold him in place as my right hand pummels him. I don’t know how many times I’m able to strike him, but every time I hear him laugh, I hit him again to try to make it stop.

Laugh. Crunch.

Laugh. Thump.

Laugh. Crack.

Silence.

Pete and Dan pull me off Jordan and I look back and forth between my bloody hand and Jordan’s bloody face like I’m waking from a dream.

“I… I have to go,” I say, pushing them out of the way and jumping over Jordan to dash into the corridor.

By the time I’m in my car and racing down Cesar Chavez toward Immersive, the streets are packed with traffic. I pound my horn, but no one moves and people start honking back at me and flipping me the bird. I remember Charley saying something about a concert or festival near Immersive.

Fuck it.

I hop out of the car and skirt my way around the stalled cars, ignoring the sounds of people shouting and hammering their car horns at me. I take off down Cesar Chavez toward Marin Street at a full sprint, hopping fire hydrants, dodging slow-walkers and dog-walkers. Some people yell at me to slow down, some transients cheer me on like I’m running in a fucking marathon.

As I run, I try to call Charley, to warn her, but it keeps going straight to voicemail. It feels like I’m in one of those dreams where you’re in place. I nearly get flattened by a cab as I cross 3^rd Street, but I manage to cross Illinois unscathed.

As I race inside the Immersive event center, I realize I can’t fucking remember the name of the couple she made the video for. I rush over to the security guard behind the reception desk, who’s listening to chatter on a two-way radio.

“I’ll be right there,” he shouts into the radio and leaves the desk before I can ask him where to find the rehearsal dinner.

And it dawns on me. I’m too late.