Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, bloody hell, and fuck everything. I don’t even remember what I say to Gillian and Anna; I take off after Emma with as much dignity as I can muster. By the time I catch up to her, the elevator doors are already closing. I throw my arm between the doors, get inside, and ride with her down to the lobby.

She’s staring at the floor as though it’s telling her the most incredible, marvelous story, and she doesn’t want to miss a word of it.

“What are you doing here?” Accusative? Casual? Why not go for both? She certainly bristles at my tone. Emma Brightman is not a woman to enjoy being pushed around. Normally, that would arouse me. Right now, it’s more a problem than anything else.

“You had a real nice family tableau going on in there.” She glares at me; there’s fire kindling in her green eyes now. As Smokey the Bear used to say in the Saturday morning cartoons of my misspent childhood, only you can fight forest fires. Then he doused, stirred, and doused again. Unfortunately, any attempt to pour a bucket of water on Emma right now would only leave her more furious.

I have no idea where these idiotic ideas are coming from. This must be what Emma calls ‘mental blather.’ I don’t know how she survives it.

“That was Gillian, yes. And her daughter.”

“Who else’s?” She’s narrowing her eyes now. That can only mean business.

“What does that mean, exactly?”

Oh, she doesn’t have to answer; I’ve a very good idea, before she speaks, of who put her up to this. “Gavin told me—”

“Why are you spending so much time with Gavin, exactly?” I snap. The doors open, and two well-dressed ladies are standing there, yappy Chihuahuas in one arm, Whole Foods grocery bags in the other. They appear interested in listening to the rest of this argument, but Emma and I exit quickly before walking out the revolving doors. The day is scorching hot, the reflection of sunlight on the sidewalks painfully blinding. As I said before, I hate this part of Los Angeles: the searing, constant light.

“If you’d listened to the voicemail I left you, it was a miracle I got out of the break room with him without getting groped.” She frowns, and my whole vision goes red. That’s it. I’m going to drive down there, take my car up to the eleventh floor, sneak it quietly past reception, and then run over Gavin where he sits. Don’t ask me how this is to be accomplished. What the hell’s the point of having all this money if you can’t use it for insane and irresponsible murders?

“Are you all right?” I start by comforting her as best I can. I take Emma into my arms, tilt her chin up. “Did he hurt you?”

She must feel the tension in my embrace, because she rests her head on my chest. Instantly, my blood cools. It’s all right; everything can be taken care of. First I have Gavin fired, then I chase Gavin to the ends of the earth, then I defeat him in a test of strength and a spelling exam. It’s all going to happen exactly as I picture. Save, perhaps, the spelling.

“He was doing his creepy little mindfuck routine.” Emma sighs, pushing away from me. The possessive, growling voice in my head wants to hang onto her. I should have protected her this entire time. I should never have let Gavin worm his way into her head. Then, Emma continues. “He also said you and Gillian had had a baby, and you ran out on her.”

I’m expecting a confident laugh from her now. Something to dismiss such utter bullshit. But instead, I find she’s…looking up at me with what can best be described as hopeful wariness. She even plays nervously with her hair, always a telltale sign that she’s unsure.

Of me. She’s uncertain of me.

In some part of her heart, she believes Gavin. Or at least, she believes he could be telling the truth.

Does she think so little of me that she could entertain that idea for a second?

“And?” I lose all trace of a smile. I will not rush to console or relieve her. She should be adult enough to do that on her own.

“Well. I mean, I don’t believe him. Of course I don’t.” She gives a weak laugh, but that’s still not good enough.

“Then why did you run away like that?”

Emma pauses, sizing me up. I feel her pulling away from me even now, into some uncertain corner of her mind. “So picture this. Your douchebag boss hits on you, then makes up some lame-ass story about how his ex-girlfriend has a love child by your studly gentleman caller, and she’s in town trying to get money for an operation, or a disease, or whatever Dickensian cough’s going around England these days. Then you show up to laugh it off, have a drink, maybe get frisky, and what do you find? A hassled looking ex-girlfriend and a sick looking little girl. Who, let’s be honest, seems to have your hair and eyes.” She lets all of that come out in a rush. I can tell she wants me to interrupt her, but I won’t. I won’t degrade myself with this.

I won’t give up my pride for anyone, no matter how much she means to me.

“Fraser? What do you think?” Emma sounds so timid; she wants to be so tender.

“Go on.” I’m as neutral as possible, and it lands on her like a blow. She keeps going.

“Look, if you tell me Gavin’s up to some shenanigans, I’ll believe you. If you tell me he planted those two as part of a way to one-up me—like, he’s playing 4-D chess with reality or something—I’ll buy it. I just need you to look me in the eye and—”

“And what, Emma? Tell you that I’m not the type of man to leave a woman pregnant with my child? Tell you I’m not the type to abandon a chronically ill child?” God, this really does sound like a soap opera, doesn’t it? If one of us comes down with amnesia, preferably me, it’ll be only too fitting.

Now her cheeks are flushing. That gleam in her eyes means she’s getting angry. Good. I’d like someone to join me in feeling utterly fucking furious. “You’re the one who’s acted weird about your past. You know, with your ultimatums and your stalking to the bathroom to wash your face angrily.” She even mimes it. “Oh yeah, I’ve had a lifetime of angry removals to the bathroom. It’s the only place Mom ever gave Dad any peace. If you’d gotten out the nose hair trimmers, I’d have known we were in deep shit.”

“You don’t own any trimmers,” I growl. Not the most eloquent I’ve ever been.

“Look, I’m the one who got felt up by her boss, okay? I am trying to be understanding right now, Fraser, but I just need.” She pauses, her hands all but fluttering. “I don’t know. I need you to meet me halfway.”

And I could. And perhaps it would be wiser—in fact, I know that it would be. But after all the indignities I’ve suffered because of Gavin Walker, I will not do this. I am not going to debase myself by reassuring her that I am not the worst kind of man. If Emma believes it’s even possible, then she cannot believe in me at all. Love is an impossibility under such circumstances.

I won’t be her fool. If that’s what she wants, she can leave and never come back.

“And what is halfway, exactly?” I won’t move, and I won’t smile at her, or give her anything but the cold, neutral expression best used in board meetings. “How much should I embarrass myself to please you?”

She gapes. Blinking as if trying to see clearly, she says, “All I want is a simple yes or no answer.”

“And all I want is for you not to need one.” I step away. “It’s simple, Emma. If you need me to assure you that I am not the kind of man who would abandon his own child, I can’t give you that assurance. You need to decide on your own, and then you need to stop prying into my life. Do you understand?”

That last line comes harder and louder than I wanted it to. She jumps, as if responding to a general’s command to his troops. But Emma Brightman is not the type to be led. I know this about her. I knew how she’d react, but it doesn’t change anything.

“You know, in relationships couples are supposed to share things. Hell, they’re supposed to share everything. I grew up watching two people who were married but didn’t have anything to say to each other, Fraser.” Now her eyes are red, glinting with tears. “I’m not going to make that kind of dumbass mistake. I want you to tell me what is going on.”

“And I want you to be ashamed you had to ask me such a disgusting question.” I won’t budge on this, and I can see her realize that. Emma sniffs, and looks down. She discreetly wipes her eyes.

“I don’t want to be a part of whatever weirdness is going on with you. At least, I don’t want to be shut out of it, then get fed weird information from Gavin or other people. I want you to talk to me, and if you can’t do that.” She shrugs. “Then I don’t think it’s going to work out between us.”

Those words nearly shatter my resolve. After these past few days, I can’t go back to life before. I can’t be without her; the scent of her perfume, the warmth of her in my bed, the ridiculous joke emails she keeps forwarding at inappropriate times. Say anything it takes to keep her, a voice whispers in my mind.

But I don’t go in for whispering voices, and I don’t back down.

“Then I suppose that’s that.” I hear the words as though they’re coming from a distance, but I won’t take them back. Emma makes a short, wounded noise. She even staggers backward, as though I struck her.

“Um. You know I’m being serious, right?” She blinks at me in horror.

“Yes. So am I. Very serious.” I pause, giving her one last chance. Please, don’t make me do this. “Now are you going to let it drop, or not?”

Her face flushes bright red now, and a vein pulses in her neck. Normally, this would be enough to turn me off, but it seems that nothing Emma can do will kill my insatiable appetite. Well, she could dress like a circus clown. That might do it.

Or she could leave, Fraser, you idiot. Who the fuck thinks of clowns at a time of extreme emotional upheaval? Except perhaps Stephen King?

That is most certainly an Emma joke. She’s Incepted her way into my subconscious. I’ll never be free of her, even if she leaves.

Even when she leaves.

Which, incidentally, appears to be right now.

“Then I’ll see you at the next family Christmas party.” She stalks past me, hiking the strap of her purse up her shoulder. “Bye, Fraser.”

I don’t say goodbye; I don’t say anything. Instead, I walk calmly back through the revolving doors. The buzzing in my ears drowns out the hard squeak of my shoes on the marble floor. It’s all for the best, of course. A woman who can’t trust me can’t love me; and a woman who can’t respect me can’t love me, either. This was inevitable. After all, she asked too much. After being assaulted by her despicable boss—a man I could have given her clearer warning about—she came to me for support, only to find the apparent evidence of all she’d been warned about. Then she had the audacity to ask me to explain.

What kind of sane person asks for something like that?

Fuck. Fuck everything. What have I done?

“Emma.” The word is out of my mouth as I push back out the door, into the afternoon. To my right, I see the taillights of her car as she drives away. I pull out my phone and call her—I know she shouldn’t be on the phone while driving, but this is a damn emergency.

Nothing. It goes to voicemail after six rings. When I try again, it goes straight to voicemail: she’s turned off the phone.

As I turn to go back inside, back to Gillian and Anna, it occurs to me what I just lost. And this time, there is no Gavin Walker to blame.