Page 170 of Sin

“You did well,” she says.

“I didn’t cry,” I agree.

“That’s not a measure of success.”

“It’s one of mine.”

Her mouth curves faintly.

The elevator arrives. We step in. For the first time in weeks, I allow myself to look down the executive hallway before the doors close. His office is at the far end. Door shut. Of course he is here.

The elevator doors begin to slide closed. For one ridiculous second, I imagine him stepping into the hall. Seeing me. Saying my name. But the doors shut. No Sin and no last-second movie moment.

Outside, Mara waits with me for my car.

“You have decisions to make,” she says. “The SINsual offer is stability. Familiarity. Credit for your work. But it comes with history.”

“That’s a gentle word.”

“I charge extra for brutal ones.”

“What’s the brutal one?”

She looks at me. “Wounds.”

I swallow.

She continues, “Sex Activity Pro is opportunity. Money. Distance. A clean reporting structure. But it may also be running.”

I look at the traffic moving along the curb.

“And if I want to run?”

“Then run toward something, not just away.”

Annoyingly good advice.

“Do lawyers take a class on saying things that sound simple but ruin your whole afternoon?”

“Yes. It’s called billing.”

My car pulls up.

Before I get in, Mara touches my arm briefly. “Read the revised Sex Activity Pro offer again when you’re calm. And Laurel?”

I look back.

“You’re not in trouble,” she says.

For some reason, that is the thing that nearly breaks me. Not the agreement, the board, or even the return-to-work clearance. That.

You are not in trouble.

It sounds like something I needed to hear when I was nine. Or sixteen. Or twenty-five. Or every day since Jenna’s mother said my name online like I was something dirty stuck to the bottom of her shoe. I nod because I can’t speak. Then I get into the car.

My new building is nicer than my old one. Objectively. It has a doorman, secure elevators, cameras, a package room that requires three separate codes and possibly a blood oath. My apartment is higher up, with better windows and better locks and a view that should make me feel accomplished. Instead, it feels like a very expensive hiding place.

When I step inside, the quiet greets me. Just boxes I still haven’t unpacked and the plant I rescued from my old apartment looking at me like it also has opinions about my life choices. I drop my bag on the counter and kick off my shoes. Then I open my laptop.