Page 28

VICTOR

A towering stack of contracts loomed on my desk, demanding my attention.

I loosened my tie and leaned back in my leather chair, hoping a different perspective might make them seem less daunting.

It was Thursday—easily the worst day in the office since Barbara only worked the first half of the week.

Monday felt a lifetime away. She was sharp, meticulous, and would have made quick work of these contracts…

if I hadn’t kept her otherwise occupied.

I rubbed my temples and glanced at the clock. Its hands crept toward noon. Time always dragged when you wanted it to race ahead. Was it Monday yet?

My eyes drifted shut, pulling me into vivid recollections.

Barbara had been perched on this very desk just yesterday, legs elegantly crossed, feigning professionalism while I let my hands roam—testing the limits of her self-control.

Her breath hitched, her composure slipping with every calculated caress.

A soft knock shattered the memory. My eyes snapped open.

“Come in,” I called.

The door swung open, and Mrs. Miller popped her head inside. Her sharp gaze darted around the office, as if making sure I was alone. “There’s a Mr. Frank Evans here to see you,” she said quietly. “He’s most insistent.”

A knot formed in my stomach, and I sat up. “Send him in,” I said, straightening my tie, trying to sound casual.

Mrs. Miller withdrew, and a moment later, Frank Evans strode into my office.

He was a tall man—a full head taller than me—in his mid-twenties with the square jaw of a comic book hero.

I could see why women might find him attractive.

His brown suit was clearly cheap, but he’d dressed it up with a loud tie and pocket square to compensate.

He forced a smile, but the tension around his eyes gave him away.

“Victor,” he said, extending a hand. I stood and shook it, noting the rough calluses of a man who had, at some point, done real work with his hands.

“Frank,” I said evenly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He took a seat without being asked. I sank back into my chair, studying him. He pulled a thick envelope from his inner jacket pocket and placed it on the desk between us.

“What’s this?”

“That’s the rest of the money I owe you.”

I let the envelope sit unopened. “You pulled that together quickly.”

Frank shrugged, but his eyes never left mine. “Seemed best to settle up sooner rather than later.”

“Indeed.” I pulled a cigarette from the silver case on my desk, lighting it with deliberate ease. I offered one to Frank, but he waved it off with a curt shake of his head. “So, we’re square now.” I exhaled a slow stream of smoke. “Is that all?”

He hesitated, and I knew in my gut that whatever he said next would be the real reason for his visit.

Frank leaned forward, his jaw set like a man bracing for a fight. “I need to talk to you about Barbara.”

A dozen scenarios ran through my mind in the span of a second. Had Barbara confessed? Was he here to threaten me? To beg?

“She’s proving to be quite capable,” I said smoothly. “You should be proud.”

He snorted—a sharp, derisive sound that sent a prickle up the back of my neck. “Proud? Maybe if she were taking care of her family instead of gallivanting around like some…”

I took a long drag on my cigarette, letting the smoke fill my lungs and blur the room for a moment. “Like some what, Frank?”

He hesitated. “Like some career girl.”

The tension in the room was thick enough to slice. I tapped the ash from my cigarette into a crystal tray and eyed the envelope of cash. “It’s the fifties, Frank. Times are changing. Women can have careers these days.”

“Careers,” he muttered, almost spitting the word. “This isn’t a career. It’s a distraction. A dangerous one.”

“So you think it’s dangerous for her to work here?”

He folded his arms tight across his chest. “I think that she’s gotten in over her head.”

I studied Frank for a long moment, letting the silence do its work. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair but held my gaze.

“So, you want me to fire her?” I asked, sparing him the pretense.

Frank’s eyes flickered—hope, perhaps for a second—before hardening again. “Yes. If she’s not working, she’ll come home. Things will go back to the way they were.” He looked down at his lap. “The way they should be.”

There it was. The real reason for his visit. I studied Frank’s face—the tight lines around his mouth, the rigid set of his jaw. He wasn’t a fool, but he wasn’t as clever as he thought.

“Barbara is a grown woman, Frank. She can make her own decisions.”

Frank uncrossed his arms and gripped the chair. “Can she?” he challenged. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re the one calling the shots.”

I drummed my fingers on the envelope thick with cash. Frank’s eyes flicked toward it, and his body tensed like he was sizing up a threat. I took another drag from my cigarette, savoring the acrid taste of tobacco, and let the smoke coil up from my lips in a slow, deliberate spiral.

“Are you accusing me of something, Frank?”

He was silent for a moment—the kind of silence weighed down by pent-up anger. Then he stood—slowly, deliberately.

“I’m not here to accuse,” he said finally, though the heat in his voice suggested otherwise. “I’m here to get my wife back.”

I exhaled slowly, letting the cigarette smoke curl between us like a lazy ghost. He leaned over the desk, his large hands splayed on the mahogany surface.

The proximity was meant to intimidate, but it only confirmed how desperate he was.

I recalled Barbara splayed out on the very same desk, breathless and undone, moaning and panting with pleasure—pleasure that Frank wouldn’t recognize if it slapped him across the face.

The memory made me smile—a slow, deliberate curl of my lips. Frank stiffened. His jaw clenched, face flushing as he shoved the envelope across the desk at me.

“Take the money,” he growled. “We’re even, and she doesn’t need this job anymore.”

With casual disdain, I stubbed out my cigarette in the crystal tray and rose to meet his gaze. “Frank,” I said, my tone almost gentle, “this isn’t about the money.”

His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, I thought he might take a swing at me. Part of me hoped he would. The physical release would be welcome, and it would give me an excuse to finish what I suspected he lacked the courage to start.

But Frank held himself in check. He straightened up, adjusted his cheap, gaudy tie, and stepped back from the desk. “You think you’re some kind of big shot, don’t you?”

I circled the desk, the air between us charged like a storm about to break.

“Careful, pal. Much more, and I’ll start to take it personally.”

We stood toe to toe, though he had the height advantage.

Frank held his ground, his eyes drilling into mine with hatred and helplessness.

I could almost hear his thoughts ricocheting in his skull, colliding like pool balls with nowhere to land.

He was a man on the brink, and I suspected that one well-placed push might send him right over the edge.

“I don’t want trouble,” Frank said, his voice low, almost a growl. “I just want what’s mine.”

The way he said it—like she was a set of cufflinks he’d misplaced—made my blood run hot. It was no wonder she sought escape in her work. And in me.

For a moment—a flicker, a breath—he almost crumbled. His eyes wavered, and the hard lines of his face softened into something like sorrow. But just as quickly, he set his jaw and squared his shoulders.

“We’re done here, Victor. And so is Barbara. She won’t be back to work next week.”

I plastered on an impassive mask. “And what does she think about that?”

“It doesn’t matter what she thinks. She’s my wife, and what I say goes.” He turned toward the door. His shoulders were stiff, and his stride clipped.

Just as he reached for the handle, I spoke. “Frank.”

He paused but didn’t turn, his fingers curled tightly around the brass.

“Don’t make the mistake of underestimating her.” I let my voice drop low—so low he had to strain to hear it. “Or me.”

Frank didn’t say a word. He just turned the handle, opened the door, and closed it behind him—not a slam, not a bang. Just a quiet little click, like the snap of a trigger being cocked.

I stood alone in my office, the fading scent of Frank’s cheap cologne mixing with the lingering smoke from my extinguished cigarette.

I lifted the envelope and tested its weight.

The money meant nothing to me, but desperation was a currency all its own, and Frank was throwing it around like a gambler on his last chip.

He was a man pushed to his limits, clutching at the last straws of a life he no longer controlled.

A life that Barbara, in her restless ambition, had outgrown.

He was full of delusion—his belief that he could simply command Barbara back into the box he had constructed for her. It was almost pitiable. Almost. He still saw the world in terms of ownership and duty, unable to comprehend that the desires and dreams of others might take precedence over his own.

I walked to the window and looked out over the city.

Los Angeles sprawled beneath me, a maze of possibilities.

For a moment, I imagined what it would be like to walk away, to leave all of this behind and build something new.

Something honest. The thought drifted like smoke—fleeting, weightless. And I dismissed it just as quickly.

Returning to my desk, I flipped open the silver case, pulled another cigarette, and lit it. The first drag filled my lungs with a familiar burn, temporarily blotting out the deeper pains.

Barbara was no fool. She could make her own choices. But choices had consequences, and she needed to understand what she was risking. Not just with Frank, but with her son, with her family. With me.

I picked up the phone and dialed Barbara’s home number. After two rings, her angelic voice drifted through the receiver.

“Hello, gorgeous. Can I take you out to lunch today?”