Two days after his funeral, a man winked at her on the street, and it was his wink—all clumsy and awkward, and she grabbed the man's hand and pulled him home with her. She thought she was fucking a memory but she realized she was trying to fuck the memories out of herself instead. It was easy to confuse.
Grief could come in so many different forms and colors. When her mother died, her grief was navy blue: dark and desperately sad, but nothing more. She cried every night for three months until life started happening again—whether she wanted it to or not—and then she found a way to continue on ignoring the gaping mother-sized hole in her heart.
But her grief after losing her husband was nothing near that. That grief was dark red, the kind that had her lying on her hallway carpet, body stinging as she scrambled up and tried to remember why she'd wanted to invite the man into her home, much less invite him into her body. She was insane and furious, out of control and reckless, but that was the first and last time she acted out that way. She and the man parted ways with the understanding that it was simply a random encounter that meant nothing. She didn't tell him any of the words that were carving deep into the skin of her mouth. She didn't tell him: I'm sorry, but for a moment, you looked like him. And I had to fuck you like it was him I was punishing.
He wouldn't have understood, anyway. She couldn't explain to anyone, not even herself, why she was so inherently angry. Perhaps it was because they were cheated of the time they were meant to have together. They were married and life began for one beautiful week—and then it was over. No apologies. Perhaps it was because he had suffered so much. Perhaps it was because he left her, even when he swore to her that he never would. Or perhaps she was truly angry at herself for not being able to save him. She had always saved him, except for the time he needed it the most.
She hadn't been as angry as she was when she'd fucked that random man ever again—until she met the new CEO. Clara returned to her office that day feeling quite like she'd felt as the man walked from her house: stinging and shaky, uncertain and shamed, but all the while infuriated for reasons that probably didn't make much sense at all.
She shut her office door and drew the blinds, falling down onto her sofa with a strangely empty heart. It had been bursting with agony all morning, but now she was nothing at all. She was nothing at all a lot these days.
She lay back on the cushions and closed her eyes, because it helped not to stare at the empty places the photographs used to be. It helped to see nothing while she felt nothing. It was nice to not exist. All she'd wanted was to sit in John's chair. She wanted to see the office one last time, before the new man put all of his stuff into it. Before it wasn't John's anymore. She wanted to sit in John's chair, because it was his, and part of her had hoped that when she sat down she'd be able to feel where it'd formed to his body, or maybe that it'd smell like him somehow. Maybe she could find pieces of him somewhere, some sign that he had lived. He had been there. People were moving on and forgetting him and she was dying and that was all there was to it. She'd never planned on the new CEO coming in. He was supposed to be gone at his meeting for another thirty minutes—she'd checked. But then he was so rude, and so unlike John, and it had made her distraught. It had been so jarring, so cruel. Suddenly she was the same woman she'd been that day on the street, watching a stranger wink like her dead husband and falling apart because of it. And the way he'd talked to her—telling her what she could and couldn't wear, like she was his property. She wouldn't let anyone treat her like that. If she wanted to be talked to so disrespectfully, she would still be scrubbing floors at the Ritz-Carlton.
She made it through two meetings before the pain in her body mounted to the point of tears. She ducked into a bathroom stall and pulled her husband's bottle of Dilaudid from her briefcase shakily, swallowing it dry and stooping against the wall. Her head was throbbing with pain that rivaled any headache she'd ever had before, and she found it difficult to think about much else, but she knew in thirty minutes her head would hurt less. She'd be terribly nauseated, as the medicine always made her sick, but at least her body and head wouldn't ache. They'd prescribed it to John after he lost his leg to his rapidly spreading cancer, but he'd hardly ever touched the stuff, always trying to play down his agony for Clara's sake. They got it refilled as often as the doctor prescribed, just because Clara had feared one day he'd desperately need it and they wouldn't have any, and when he died he left behind quite a lot of unused pills. And a wife. He left behind that, too.
She walked until her nausea peaked, and then she sat down on the bench between the elevators on the fifth floor, her head lowering into her hands as she breathed quickly. She was reminded for the thousandth time how versatile grief was. It could wreck you physically just as cruelly as it wrecked your heart and there was nothing to do for it. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt okay physically, but she was certain it was before John had been diagnosed. And there was no moment after his death that she felt all right in the slightest.
The rest of the day was a blur of headache-medicine-nausea-tiredness. By the time she was in the elevator at the end of the day, she had no energy to fight with the new CEO. The most she could say was the truth. If he would treat her like that, she would leave, and she wouldn't go quietly. She'd done too much for this corporation to be treated like shit. She'd made it too far to go back to getting bossed around by men twice her age. She felt she couldn't take anymore regression.
All she wanted was to return to her room and see her and John's baby, a chubby golden retriever named Noel, but she had errands to run before returning to the hotel she was staying at. She hadn't returned home since John had passed and she felt currently that she never would. Just the thought of walking in and hearing the complete and total lack of his laughter, his heavy footsteps, his love…it brutalized her. All she had was a bag with seven pairs of underwear, some pajamas, and a couple dress suits—Rory had offered to go to her house and pack for her when she was a huddled mess in the hospital, gripping tightly to her husband's lifeless hand and pleading: please, please, please. Don't do this to me. Please don't leave me like this. It's too soon, please.—and he hadn't packed any of the right things, but she had been too weary to say anything and much too terrified to venture back to fix it herself. That fact had been the other blade to the double-sided wound the new CEO's comments on her wardrobe had caused. The majority of her was disgusted by the simple fact that he thought he had the right to dictate what she could and couldn't put on her own body—and the other part of her was heartbroken, because she knew she was wearing a dress suit that didn't quite fit her right, but that was only because her others were back at her beautiful brownstone that she couldn't bear to enter.
Necessity insisted that she now buy another pair of panties to replace the ones she'd thrown in a fit of rage, but she wouldn't buy new dress suits now. She would rather go into work naked than come in wearing something he might approve of. He wasn't the boss of her and she wouldn't let him even get that impression for a moment, so she stopped in Bloomingdale's and bought a new pair of underwear and avoided the clothing all together. She'd managed with what she had thus far and she'd continue managing. Fuck him. Fuck him.
She stopped by a pet store and bought Noel another bag of dog treats to make up for her lonely hours. She was used to being alone while John and Clara were at work, but she wasn't used to not seeing him. She knew he was gone and she whined at the door for at least ten minutes a day, turning and looking at Clara with confused eyes. Her tail thumped so happily anytime she heard a male voice outside of the door, always assuming it was her human father, but it never was. He was gone and Noel was all Clara had left.
She walked the half mile back to Waldorf Towers (one of the many pet friendly hotels) and rode the elevator up to her room, eager to be back with the only other living thing whose world was devastated by John's absence. She opened the door and entered the cool, elegant room, letting her bags fall to the floor as Noel immediately rose to her feet and began circling Clara excitedly, her tail thumping wildly. Clara kneeled in front of her dog and wrapped her arms around her neck, pressing her face into her thick fur and letting out a sigh she'd been withholding all day. She scratched Noel's back and felt her tears beginning. This was always when it started.
"I'm back," she reassured her. "Come on, let's sit. Then I'll give you dinner and your treat."
Noel followed after her as Clara carried the bags into the living room area, dropping them onto the coffee table as she herself sank down onto the sofa. Noel walked back and forth, rubbing against Clara's legs, whining about something Clara couldn't fix. Clara wondered if the dog would ever get used to seeing only one person walk through the doors. She pet Noel's head and brought her legs to her chest, resting her chin against her knees as she struggled to breathe against the gaping emptiness inside of her chest. When Noel trotted to the door and then back to Clara, nudging her ankles with her wet nose, Clara broke.
"He isn't coming back." She told her dog harshly. The words hurt her more than they hurt the dog, who just stared at her with those confused eyes, her tail still wagging away. "I'm sorry, Noel. I can't make him come back. If I could, I…oh, please stop asking me to with your big, sad eyes." And then she had to press her forehead against her knees as a ragged, painful sob worked its way from her finally. It'd been building all day long. She gripped her calves and sobbed, leaning back against the couch. Noel was frantic as she hurried forward and set her front paws on the couch cushions, lifting herself up to lean forward and lick Clara's face worriedly. But tears only took the place of the ones she licked away.
Noel knew she wasn't supposed to be on the hotel furniture, but she pulled her big body right on up there anyway, lying halfway on top of Clara. Clara stretched on so her back was to the cushions and pressed her face into the dog's fur as she cried. They stayed that way, the weeping woman and her confused dog, for another hour. But then there was life to attend to. She'd never had the opportunity to grieve him the way he deserved, and the guilt of that only fueled her constant fury.
She fed Noel and then gave her three dog treats, smiling tearfully at how happy just that could make the dog. She couldn't get any work done due to the aches and pains of her body, so she took another pill, but then she was so sick she couldn't even stand the idea of looking at food, much less eating it. She went to bed hungry and tired, but no matter how hard she tried, sleep never came. There was a time when it wasn't like this. When John would have gathered her into his arms and kissed her hair. He would have said what's wrong, my Clara?, and she would have bared it all to him and he would have fixed everything with just a kiss and a hug. She would have fallen asleep peacefully in his arms, content in the fact that she had him and that made life okay.
But she had no one but Noel, who slept at her side but couldn't say anything at all. She took some nighttime pain reliever to help herself fall asleep, and the last thing she thought before sleep overtook her was that John would have been disappointed in her, for the things she'd said to the new CEO today, for the way she was coping with this. The last thing he'd asked of her was for her to stay safe and happy, and she'd told him she would. She lied to a dying man who had her whole heart in his hands and there would be no righting of that wrong, because he was gone forever. And because of that, she cried herself to sleep.
Mornings were cold no matter the temperature. Clara still sometimes had a few moments upon waking where she'd forget. She'd turn on her side and reach over for someone who wasn't there anymore, and when her fingers found nothing but Noel's warm fur, she felt her stomach plummet sharply.
She considered it an accomplishment to even force herself to drink a cup of tea or coffee, or to take a shower. Even getting out of bed, really. She refused to take off from work because she knew if she did, there would be no reason for her to ever get out of bed. She would lie there all day and all night and never move again. But after the terrible day she'd had yesterday, she almost felt that wasn't as scary as it'd been before. She almost felt like she wanted to tell that man to fuck off. But what then? That job was all she had left of her old life, except for a five-year-old golden retriever and a beautiful house she couldn't return to.
She was shaky from not eating the night prior, so she forced herself to eat a banana before she took the Dilaudid, knowing she wouldn't be able to eat a thing once she did. She dressed in a navy blue dress suit and white blouse, tugging on a pair of underwear and vowing to keep a hold on those this time. All she had with her were her black heels, so she pulled the same ones on. It was only her fear of discovery that got her in front of the mirror, slowly applying her customary red lipstick and black mascara. She had to add blush to keep from looking as miserable as she felt. And then she practiced smiling a couple of times. As long as she thought of work as a performance, she could get through it. She could play the part of a woman coping well. She relied too on the control she had at work, because it felt truthfully like the very last ounce of control she had over anything in her life at all. There was never anything more terrifying, nothing to make you feel quite so helpless, as watching someone you love die far too early. Knowing there's nothing in the world you could do about it. Clara needed her job, needed her control, needed that sense of normalcy. And she feared with a quivering anxiety that she was losing it because of the CEO. Another thing in her life that was being taken from her, but this time, she wouldn't take it lying down.
She'd fought her entire life to be taken seriously. Being a young, pretty woman wasn't easy. Men seemed to care less about her IQ and more about the ways they might convince her to go down on them after a conference. She had begun her time in the corporation covering her body and trying desperately to sink into the shadows, but after only a week of that, she realized she could get farther by using what they wanted to her advantage. If she showed skin, she had all of their attention, even if their attention was more on her body than her ideas. Fortunately for her, she could usually get them to agree to whatever it was she wanted. It was sickening, but that was the way it was, and she could either cry about it or use it to her advantage. She'd chosen the latter and she hadn't regretted it yet.
John was different, though. He had been different from the start. She had been a secretary in the public relations office for a month when they first met. It'd been at a Christmas party, one she almost didn't go to. She sometimes found herself thinking that maybe she shouldn't have. She would have missed so much love, so much joy, but sometimes the pain seemed worse. Sometimes the pain seemed tripled.
She hadn't sought him out, intimidated by the awkward CEO who was hired as a replacement at the young age of twenty-four. And he hadn't sought her out, because of course he didn't even know she existed. But he'd been walking past her, on his way to the bathrooms, when a drunk woman stumbled hard into Clara's side, sending her tilting towards the floor, and his arms had caught her by instinct. She remembered thinking, as she looked up into his green eyes, that this was it. This was her love. And he'd been equally certain, his cheeks pinking slightly as he righted her. She made some scattered comment about his chin, her usual flustered go-to instinct being to tease, and he'd gasped, touching it like he'd never paid much mind to it before. And after a few giggles and awkward pauses, he asked her if she'd like a drink, and everything was simple then. They talked for a month, and then they dated for two weeks, and then they were a couple. They moved in together only six months after meeting, and around that same time, his previous COO retired and he'd handpicked Clara for the job. Everyone thought she'd slept with him to get the position—she'd gotten awful emails in those days—but it didn't matter much to her, because the only person she worked with was him, and he knew why he'd picked her. It wasn't because they were sleeping together; it was because they worked so beautifully together that their relationship shouldn't have been just romantic. They needed that partnership in everything: work, friendship, life. They bought Noel on their first Christmas together, named after the Christmas song that had been playing in the background the night he caught her. On their next Christmas, they purchased that brownstone together. They got married on their fifth Christmas together and they'd gone skiing in Switzerland for a week. He was tired often, but he was a busy man. When he thought to see someone about the pain in his side, they never thought it'd be what it was. They never thought they'd hear what they did. They never imagined their life together would be over so soon, so cruelly. And she never imagined she'd watch him die before she watched him hold a newborn child that would never exist now.
The subway ride to work was dizzying. Clara stared back at the man watching at her and wondered just what he saw when he looked at her. Mostly, she wondered if she was truly fooling anyone at all.
The day wrapped itself around her tightly.
She gave five presentations back to back, shaking steadily throughout the last two, and it wasn't until her headache returned that she understood why she was shaking. It'd been nine hours since she'd taken John's medicine that morning and she hadn't gone that long without it in weeks. She desperately searched her schedule for an opportunity to duck out and take more, but she was going straight to another presentation, this one to the board of trustees. She locked her hands behind her back while her assistant set up the projector and made small talk, trying her hardest to ignore the damp sweat on the back of her neck and the almost crippling nausea overwhelming her.
She was taking a few deep breaths, her back to the men and her quivering hands clasped in front of her, steeling herself for the two hours to come. She closed her eyes and thought about how she would present the different committees' ideas while simultaneously not passing out or puking all over the floor. By the time she turned back around, a smile stretched over her red lips and her eyes perhaps a bit too glossy, she felt she could do it. She began speaking with confidence and poise, compartmentalizing her pain as much as she could—when the door opened and the new CEO walked right in.
He hadn't expected her, that much was obvious. Clara hadn't seen him all day and she'd assumed this would be how things would go from now on: they would avoid each other at all costs. His wild, gray eyebrows shot right up when he saw her, his look of surprise fading to one of outrage. Clara tried to steel herself for a fight, but the floor suddenly tilted and she felt liable to fall with it. She grasped the edge of the table, hoping it looked casual to everyone else. Her breathing was probably noticeably ragged and she thought she might actually vomit this time.
"What do you think you're doing, Ms. Oswald?" He asked her loudly.
Clara let go of the table and reached up, grasping her waist with trembling hands. She pressed her thumbs hard into her stomach, hoping that would alleviate some of her pain. She felt that swell of anger rising, unable to believe that he was calling her out like this in front of the board.
"Giving the new healthcare policy pitch to the board." She responded. Was it her dizziness that made her voice sound so weak, or was it truly like that? She wasn't sure. She hoped it was just her.
He sneered. "That's sweet of you, pumpkin, but that's the CEO's job."
Clara's nausea peaked at the same moment her anger washed over her.
"I've been doing it for five years; I think I'm more capable than someone who's only just taken this position." She snapped back. She stepped away from the table and it took extraordinary effort to walk over to her briefcase. She made sure she walked straight, as to not make the board suspicious. She knew they were watching them with confusion right now. Well, they'd soon find out how much Clara and the new CEO didn't get on anyway. Currently, Clara couldn't give a fuck if they fired her. She just wanted to lie down in her bed.
When he grasped her upper arm, it sent her over the edge. His touch was gentle, as he was obviously only trying to tug her over to the side so they could talk quietly about the conflict, but Clara went up in arms immediately. She was suddenly eighteen again, and she was on her hands and knees in the bathroom of the presidential suite after having her arm grabbed forcefully on her way to deliver clean sheets, cleaning up vomit from the floor while four businessmen laughed at her and made loud comments about her ass, about her breasts, about what a shame it was that a beautiful woman like that was on her knees for this reason—
Clara turned around, her hair whacking him in the face in the process. She shoved his arm off and everything shattered. Her sickness swelled alongside her anger.
"Don't fucking touch me!"
He let go of her arm immediately, taking a step back from her with wide eyes. Clara's breathing was nearing a labored state and she knew she was about to vomit. She could feel it starting.
She was visibly shivering as she gathered her stuff.
"It's your audience." She snapped. "Have at it."
She ran to the bathroom as fast as she could, letting her briefcase fall to the floor once she was in. Her hands gripped tight to the edge of the porcelain sink as she heaved and threw up what little she had in her stomach. The relief following vomiting was so grandiose that she sank down onto the cold floor, the tile biting the skin of her bare thighs. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and leaned her head against the wall, taking a few shallow breaths until her heart was letting up the painful pounding.
After a few moments of shuddering quietly, she pulled her briefcase over to her and dug the bottle out, shaking another pill out into her clammy palm. She had truly thought she was the only one in the bathroom until he spoke.
"What are you going to do when you run out?" He wondered out loud.
Clara jumped and glanced up at Jack. Once she saw him, she noticed the urinals lining the back wall that she'd failed to notice before. She glanced back down at the pill in her hand and knew lying was no good. She wouldn't lie to Jack, anyway. He was one of the few people she trusted, and one of the three of her friends who knew about her and John's marriage. She tossed it back into her mouth and swallowed it as she thought of Jack's question.
"I don't know." She admitted. And right then, she didn't even want to think about it.
He sank down beside her, reaching hesitantly for the bottle. Clara let him read the label, too worn out to fight him. Jack hummed thoughtfully.
"That's known as prescription heroin to some." He said lightly. He gave the bottle a gentle shake and then pressed it back into her palm. His eyes met hers, blue and serious. "Dangerous stuff, Clara. But judging by your shakes and cold sweat, you already know that."
It took Clara a moment to stuff it back into her bag. When she glanced back at Jack, she knew he wouldn't tell, just as she knew he thought she was idiot for it.
"It makes me sick when I take it and makes me sick when I don't, but I like how it makes my head foggy." She said honestly. "And besides, you're one to talk about dangerous stuff."
Jack was kind as he slowly rose to his feet and extended his hand. Clara placed hers in it and let him pull her to her feet. He even wet a paper towel and handed it to her, pointing briefly at her mouth.
"You've got a bit of vomit on your cheek." He told her helpfully. Clara wiped at her face until he nodded. He continued.
"I'm known for the random sex party and night on ecstasy, but this is different, and you know it. Do you have a hair brush?" He questioned, pointing to her wayward hair. Clara leaned over and pulled hers from the bag, placing it in Jack's opened hand. He gently touched her shoulders and turned her so her back was to him, his fingers quickly pulling the pins from her up do. Her hair tumbled down her back and she pressed a hand to her warm forehead as he ran the brush gently through it, trying her hardest to get a hold of herself. She wasn't this, but that was precisely the problem. She felt like nothing at all, but she had to be something, so this is what she'd be. Because she didn't have the energy to be anything else.
Jack pulled her hair back up and refastened the pins carefully, saying nothing as he did. When he dropped his hands from her hair and Clara turned back to face him, she smiled warmly.
"Thank you, Jack." She said softly.
"It's no problem, and I'm not judging you for this. I suspect you've got a lot of reasons to want your head foggy." Jack began gently.
Clara was already shutting him out. Because she could tell what tone of voice he was using. He was using the John tone, the tone people used whenever they were going to try to breech the topic with her. But today of all days, she couldn't handle it.
"I can't talk about him." She said, and then she met Jack's eyes, hers stinging with tears she couldn't shed here of all places. "Thank you for caring, though."
Clara all but stumbled back to her office. She stepped into the adjoining bathroom and swished water around her mouth until the taste of vomit was gone, and then she collapsed on her sofa. That's where she stayed for the time she was supposed to have been giving the pitch, heart aching and stomach churning. She cried until she couldn't anymore and then she just stared at the spot on the wall she used to have the picture of her, John, and puppy Noel. Of all the people to have died, why did it have to be him? She thought she hated the god she didn't believe in more than anyone had ever hated anything before.
She'd just sat back down at her desk to try and get something done when she heard a knock on her door. It was firm and authoritative, like the person was knocking only for appearances, and just like that Clara knew exactly who it was. She thought foolishly of hiding underneath her desk, because her face was still flushed and her eyes glassy from her crying session, but avoiding this issue wouldn't make it go away. They were going to have to find a way to communicate or one of them would have to leave. It was as simple and as difficult as that.
"Come in," she called wearily.
The doorknob turned immediately, revealing the CEO, looking almost sheepish in the doorway. His tie was loosened around his neck and his suit jacket unbuttoned, like he'd been unwinding in his office too. He hesitated for only a moment and then took long, confident strides into her office. It seemed to Clara that he was trying desperately to command the room as she'd done in his office, but something was hindering him. Perhaps it was the fact that Clara had already commanded the space, with her red sofa and scattered candles. He hesitated uneasily a few steps in front of her desk, eventually turning abruptly and striding to the wall to her left, where he stood with his hands clasped behind his back, looking at the one picture Clara had managed to leave up.
"Your dog?" He asked stiffly.
Clara couldn't look at the picture with him, because she knew if she stared at it long enough, she'd see John in the background. He was sitting on the sofa in his boxers while Noel pranced for the camera in her reindeer antlers.
"Yes." She said shortly.
She knew his eyes had caught John by the way he stared intently, leaning forward just a bit, as if he could read more from the picture than was actually there. He began to speak again, and it was making Clara's skin crawl that he wasn't looking her in the eye.
"We need to talk about what happened today." He said.
Clara pushed away the dull ache in her stomach and head, swiveling her chair slightly towards the left wall.
"And we will, as soon as you look at me when you're talking to me." She replied curtly.
His gaze flew to hers, maybe from annoyance more than anything else, his lip curving up.
"Why are you such a bitch?" He demanded.
Clara felt her eyebrows rise. It was easier to deal with him in her own domain, but his words still filled her with quiet doubts. It was difficult for her to view their encounters objectively, because half the time she was too pained and sad to remember half of what was said, and the other half she was too furious to give a fuck what she'd sad. She slid her hands underneath her thighs and pinned him with her unflinching stare.
"If demanding respect is being a bitch, I'll be a bitch any day."
He took a few strides over until he was standing directly in front of her desk, so close his knees were touching it. She knew he was taking comfort in the power of towering over her.
"And why do you deserve my respect?" He asked her. "You're, what? Twenty-five at the oldest? And you don't give me any respect, so why should you get any in return?"
Clara didn't miss a beat. She ignored her instincts to slide her chair away from him and slid closer instead, leaning over her desk and peering right up into his face.
"Because the first thing I said about you wasn't cutting you down for something you can't control. Like your age. You get what you give, sir. You walked into that office treating me like shit. You set the tone for this, for us."
The edge of her desk was digging uncomfortably into her breasts, but she didn't lean back. He seemed to see that as a challenge and leaned down as well, his face only inches from hers.
"The hell you didn't. You were sitting behind my desk—!"
"I wasn't trying to make you angry! I didn't know you would be there!"
She hadn't meant to defend herself, hadn't meant to rise to his bait. She pursed her lips and leaned back slightly, something that seemed to please him greatly. She could tell he thought he'd won somehow.
"So you were invading my space, sitting in my office, and you thought it was okay as long as I didn't know you were there?" He asked in disbelief.
Clara faltered, just for a beat. His lips curved up into a smirk that Clara wanted to smack from his face. She took a moment to reorder her thoughts against the pain battering her skull.
"I wasn't going to touch anything." She told him. "I wasn't snooping. I just…wanted to sit for a second. Okay? I wasn't trying to…" she stopped just short of an apology, because she wouldn't give him one. Not after the way he'd called her pumpkin today with that condescending tone.
"Then perhaps the appropriate thing to do, upon seeing me return, would have been to stand and apologize."
Clara felt her body inching closer, bit by bit, until her ass was a few inches from the seat and the desk was digging into her stomach instead.
"I am not your subordinate." She hissed. "Either we work as partners, as equals, or you can fuck off. And if you ever call me 'pumpkin' in front of the board again, I'll make your life miserable."
Like mine is, she almost said. She caught her tongue before she did.
He lifted an eyebrow. "I don't know who you think you're fooling, Ms. Clara, but we both know very well that you have little interest in being perfect equals. You have an interest in making me think we're equals while you run me around."
Clara fell back into her seat, her stomach aching from being pressed up against the desk for so long. She thought about lying to him, but decided that was a waste of her time.
"I know what I'm doing." She said. "I've been co-running this corporation for five years. Forgive me for thinking that I might have a better idea of what to do than someone who's only just started." She didn't want to say the words, but her allegiance to the man she'd lost forced them from her. "And I didn't run John around. Not the way you think I did."
He sneered at her, and Clara steeled herself for whatever hurtful words were to come, but when he spoke, it wasn't about John at all. She was thankful for that.
"I might be more willing to respect your input if you didn't steal pitches out from underneath me. That was the highest form of disrespect I've ever—"
Clara huffed, her hands rising as she gestured emptily. "I wasn't—"
He leaned forward, his eyebrows drawn down in an angry line.
"Do not interrupt me when I'm talking." He said darkly.
Clara glowered, her palms itching to slap him across his smug face. She took deep breaths as he finished his sentence.
"You made me look like a fool." He said angrily.
Her anger was quick and hot. "Oh, did I? Good. Almost as bad as being talked to as condescendingly as you talked to me."
He pointed at her, his finger close to her face. "That's not the same bloody thing and you know it."
Her body was aching and she wanted him gone. The urge was sudden and complete.
"Here's what I know," she said impatiently. "I know that when John was CEO, I was always in charge of the policy pitches. I did them for five years. You haven't said a word to me since yesterday, so I had no reason to think my duties had changed much. I wasn't trying to slight you or embarrass you, okay? I was just trying to do my fucking job. I didn't want to be there as much as you didn't want me there, but until I know differently, I've got to do the things I've always done. Now get out of my office."
He straightened. "Well, from this point on, I'm in charge of all pitches. Anything to do with the board is mine. And all presentations are mine. All meetings are headed by me."
"So should I go by your house and pick up your laundry, then?" She asked sarcastically. "I must have the highest paying maid job in the city."
He waved his hand dismissively. "You can still do whatever else it is you do. Chat with coworkers and vomit in the bathroom from drug withdrawal."
Clara felt her stomach drop. Her spine straightened as she leaned back in her chair, her face twisting with uneasiness.
"How did you—"
He laughed mockingly. "I'm not an idiot. I know what withdrawal symptoms look like, no matter how hard you try to hide it. And I saw your hands shaking yesterday too. Little too long between bathroom visits? Perhaps you should try setting aside a friendly five minutes to keep yourself doped up."
She set her feet on the ground and pushed her chair back a little, his gaze suddenly smothering.
"I'm just coming down with the flu." She lied. "Mind your own business."
The look in his eyes was suddenly different and hard to place. "Since I've taken all of your responsibilities away, it would make sense for you to take a week or two off. You know, to get yourself over that flu."
She was shaking, but this time it was from anger.
"You can't do this." She said. "I won't go home. You can't do my job for me. It's mine. I know how to do it, and I do it well. I won't let you belittle that just because you hate me."
He reached up and tightened his tie, peering at her almost thoughtfully. "I could say the same to you."
"Get out. Didn't I tell you to get out?" She demanded. She was beginning to feel awful again, and her eyes automatically darted to her briefcase near the sofa. She didn't know why she was surprised when he caught that and followed her gaze.
"If I looked in that briefcase, what would I find?" He asked her calmly.
Clara's heart froze. She worked to maintain her control. "Nothing, because you're not allowed to go through my personal belongings."
"Would there be something bad enough to get you fired?" He wondered. "Because I bet there would be."
She peered at him uneasily, her hands regaining their quivering. "You're threatening me."
His gaze was cruel. "Why the hell are you here? Your husband died, what? Two weeks ago? What are you doing here? Trying to ensure no one ever fills the spot he left? Are you here just to run off anyone who dares to sit where he sat?"
She didn't remember standing. She was certain she'd be sick again. "I'm here because I fucking want to be! Because this is my job. And I don't need you to remind me that he died. Who the hell even told you that we were married?" It was like once she started, she couldn't stop. Her vision was slanted as a wave of vertigo overcame her. "I've dealt with men like you my entire life and after all the work I've put in, I won't do it again. I won't be treated like I'm some little girl playing make believe in Daddy's office. Fuck you! You don't know what it was like. You don't know how hard I've worked and you don't know what his last days were like, you have no idea how horrifying it's been to watch him die, so forgive me for wanting a bit of normalcy!" She paused to catch her breath, her palm pressing over her stomach. "I'm not trying to impede you—I just want things to be the way they were. I just need that."
He was cold as he neared the door.
"Things won't ever be like they were before. New CEO, new rules." He replied shortly. "If you're hoping things will be the same, you're going to be achingly disappointed."
She watched him open the door, her heart still hammering in her chest and her palms sweaty.
"You can refuse to take time off, but you're going to be pretty damn bored here. And if I ever suspect you're taking drugs while on the job, I'll report you the minute I notice. Have a good night, Ms. Oswald."