Page 36 of Love What's Left
“She never should have been in charge in the first place.” Bitterness tinges his tone.
“She took lead on this project because it was her idea.” It’s such an obvious answer that my voice drips with incredulity at his stupidity.
“Not the project. Your father gave this entire department to a girl fresh out of college with nothing but a Bachelor of Science degree. Because of you.”
He’s not wrong, but he’s not right either. “She had that lab for years before she and I were a couple. Have you ever considered he hired her because she’s brilliant? She’s saved thousands of lives, and she had that department in the black within two years when profit was never even a goal.”
“Why do you think it’s a good thing for her to constantly step outside the box the way she does? She treats this place like it’s her personal playground. She works on the projects she chooses. No one tells her what to do. Before you married her, I thought she had to be his illegitimate daughter or he was sleeping with her. Anything she asks for, you or your father give her.”
I keep my voice controlled, but there’s no hiding the anger in it. “Do you know how many times my wife stepped in to save your job when you pissed off Dad over the years? She told us you couldn’t help being abrasive. You’re not socially awkward. You’re jealous and passive aggressive.”
“I’m not jealous. Amelia could have had that position, and I’d have zero objections. I’m frustrated that some girl with anengineeringdegree walked into this place like she owned it and was treated like God’s gift to science. If anyone else had pulled what she did with those computers, you’d have fired her, and she’d have woken up in the hospital wearing handcuffs. She cut a deal with Markov to sell you out, and he double-crossed her. It’s the only thing that makes sense, and you’re letting her get away with it.”
I don’t care what the evidence points to, it doesn’t fit her temperament or her morality. Someone set her up. “Maybe it was you that cut a deal to get Sydney out of the way.”
He’s silent for long moments, then an incredulous-sounding laugh filters through my phone speaker. “That doesn’t even make sense. You saw the evidence. I understand you want to trust your wife, but sometimes blind faith is just closing your eyes and pretending you didn’t see.”
Ten minutes later, unsettled by my conversation with Rob, I open the door to our bedroom quietly, unwilling to startle Sydney in case she’s in bed for the night. If she’s awake, I half expect her to tell me she’s changed her mind about our sleeping arrangements.
She doesn’t notice me come in. Sitting cross-legged on our bed, a large wide-toothed comb in hand, she works on her knotted hair.
I stand by the door and drink her in, acting exactly like the creep she called me. Now that I know she notices me staring at her, I try to be subtle, but, fuck me, I can’t stop.
I threw myself in front of a bullet for her. I changed my entire life for her. Hit rock bottom and got sober because of her. But I can’t stop watching her.
From her spot on the bed, Sydney struggles to tame her hair. She has a lot of it, thick and wavy, and currently a godawful mess. Her limbs shake with muscle strain as she attempts to keep her arms lifted and comb through a section.
I put my hands in my pockets to prevent myself from swooping in and taking over. If she wants help, she’ll ask for it. She’s told me as much in a hundred different ways over the last week.
The comb catches on a large snarl, and she slumps, cursing with words I’ve never heard her use, all of them aimed at herself.
I step forward, but before I reach her, she stiffens, then hurls the comb across the room with a hoarse wordless scream.
The blackplastic hits the bullet-resistant glass of the window, bounces off, and lands harmlessly on the thick hand-knotted silk rug. It only seems to fan the flames of her rage, and she reaches for the bottle of hair product next, throwing it violently toward the other wall. It strikes the corner of a table and breaks apart to spill its contents on the floor.
“I’ll pull it out by the roots. I’ll cut it all off. You stupid, ugly cunt,” she screams through already raw vocal cords, then punches her own head, once, twice, then yanks at her hair before I can fully process what she’s doing.
I dive toward her, my hands coming down on her smaller ones, clamping her in place.
“Stop.” When the word has no effect, I tighten my grip and bellow it. “STOP.”
She sobs, yanking and twisting. I wrap her arms around herself, forcing her into passive restraint, making her hug herself like I’m a human straitjacket, folding her against me, and pulling her down to lie on the bed so she doesn’t fall on the hard floor.
She jerks her head back, and her skull bounces against my chest. Her heels make contact with my lower body repeatedly before I manage to scissor my legs around hers and clamp down enough to avoid having the shit kicked out of me.
If she were an opponent, I’d fight back, and she wouldn’t stand a chance. But this is my sunshine, even if she doesn’t look or sound or act like her, and I’d never risk hurting her. So I take the bruises and ride beside her through the storm.
“Shhh. Please. Sydney. Please. I’ve got you.”
The bedroom door slams open and Dave enters, weapon drawn.
“You should’ve . . . let me die,” Sydney sobs.
He lowershis arms when he takes in the scene, his expression morphing from alert determination to sympathy.
Sydney shifts and clocks me in the jaw with the back of her head. I blink and blink again as pain, white-bright and fire-hot, explodes inside my head. I readjust, tussling with her until my vulnerable parts aren’t so exposed.
Dave steps forward. “What can I do?”
