Ruthless In A Suit(75)

“I wasn’t snooping,” I begin. “Not that it matters, but I wasn’t. Your laptop screen must lack a sleep mode or something because it was on, bright and shiny when I went to get some water.”

“What are you talking about? Come here. Sit down.”

“No. I saw it,” I say, and everything starts to bubble up at once, completely out of my control. “I saw the email between you and your brothers and some lawyer guy. First son who gets to altar gets the company? What kind of sick shit is that, Jackson? You’ve just been using me this whole time as a way to take over your family business. How sick in the head are you?”

“Emily, wait,” he says. He’s standing up now and stepping toward me. I step back.

“Stay away from me, Jackson.”

He raises his hands in surrender. “I’m not…I won’t touch you, Emily.”

“This has all been a lie,” I say. “It’s all bullshit. What, you thought I was dumb enough to go along with this? That you could woo me with your big house and private rooms and rooftop pools?” Tears stream down my face at the memories. All those things he did for me—that I thought he did for me. It was all a scam. “That whole time you were just priming me to be your little wife. Did you think I’d be thankful to you for saving me from a life of middle-class boredom? That you could appease me by writing a check to my cute little charity?”

“Emily, no. I swear. It’s not like that at all. It never has been,” he says.

“So you’ve never thought of being with me as a way to win the seat at the top of the company?”

“No, not like that. Let me explain…it’s complicated.”

“I was so blind. My first impression of you was that you were a complete asshole and somehow I let myself forget that.” That day in his office he was so cocky. He was toying with me even then. “So what happened? You learned that you had to get married so thought of me? Some fresh, pliable girl for you to mold to your liking?”

“Emily, it wasn’t like that at all. My feelings for you are genuine. I truly care about you. Please.” He takes another step toward me.

My voice quivers as I say, “Don’t you dare touch me.”

I hustle out of the room and across the house, so unnecessarily big, just like his ego. Jackson chases after me.

“I do care about you,” he says. “Please listen to me. I know how that email looks but I don’t care about any of that. I don’t care what my asshole father wanted. I only care about you.”

“I may have been naïve once but my eyes are wide open now,” I say. “I don’t believe for one second that you don’t care about your business. It’s fine that you care about it—you should—but it’s the only thing you care about and that’s not okay. God, my family saw that within three minutes of meeting you. What took me so long?” I know what took me so long—I was swept up in those strong arms of his, those sensual kisses, those deft hands…

“Emily, I do care,” Jackson says, his eyes pleading—probably because he sees his beloved company slipping away. “I’ve been falling for you. Please. Stay.”

I want to slap him for saying that. His desperation to save himself is as pathetic as it is transparent.

“You’ve just proven my point,” I say. I swing open the heavy oak door and practically run down Marlborough Street, away from Jackson and everything I let myself believe.



I throw myself back into school and work with renewed force. I have to keep my mind occupied—it’s the only way I can survive. Natalie and I spend an evening studying our asses off for an upcoming exam. Afterward we hit up a pub in Brookline where I drink way too many beers. I don’t even mind the old guys flirting with me. I laugh loudly, toss peanut shells on the floor, and give two shits about what happens tomorrow and zero shits about what happened with Jackson. I go through the motions of being carefree.

But when I’m in bed at night, just before sleep takes hold of me, I see Jackson’s face and I cry. I hate myself for it. I hate myself for missing him and feeling like I need him.

Sitting through Brent’s class is a different kind of hell. At least Natalie is next to me, but even she can’t shield me from the looks I get from other classmates—the disgust of some of the women, the salacious interest from some of the guys. I’m repulsed by the whole thing.

“Let’s think about examples due of process in public schools,” Brent says from the front of the class. It’s been a long week of trying to be okay, and I’m tired. It’s been raining and cold and everyone is coming down with colds. There’s a general miserableness to the room that’s felt by everyone, I think. Today it’s not just me. “What steps must be taken before any punishment is handed out when a student is suspected of wrongdoing?”