Page 78 of Ricardo

She paces two steps toward the window, turns, then stops because the room is too small to contain the amount of fury in her.

“He looked at me like I was something that came with his lunch,” she says. “Like a side. And then, the second my father’s name registered, suddenly he remembered how to speak to me like I was an actual person.”

Her laugh is sharp and humorless.

“Not because I was one. Not because I was here professionally. Not because I was standing there doing my actual job. But because Judge Patrick O’Brien exists somewhere in the world as an important man, and apparently that makes me more legitimate than existing in my own right.”

I feel my jaw tighten.

Julia points toward the terrace, though Valecourt is well out of sight. “He called me sweetheart twice. He asked what my poison was, as if I was there for his entertainment. He stared at my boobs when I was explaining the transfer terms. But the moment he placed me, the moment he could connect me to a man with power, he sat up straighter.”

She presses both hands to her hips and looks at the ceiling as if asking it for patience.

“I hate that I knew it would happen. I hate that I watched it happen, and that I’ve seen it happen so many times before. And I really hate that some part of me was relieved when it worked.”

“Because it got you what you needed,” I say.

Her eyes drop back to mine.

“That does not make you weak, Julia.”

Her mouth opens, then closes.

“I didn’t say I felt weak.”

“No,” I say. “You said relieved as if it were a confession.”

She looks away first, jaw tight.

For several seconds, she says nothing. Then, quieter, “I hate needing his name.”

“You did not need it.”

She gives me a look.

“You didn’t,” I say. “He needed it. There is a difference.”

Her expression shifts, not softening exactly, but the anger loses its sharp edge.

“He was going to keep playing with me.”

“Yes.”

“And then he stopped.”

“Because he realized the game had witnesses and consequences.” I sit forward, resting one forearm on the table. “You were competent before he knew your father. You were prepared before he knew your father. You handled him before he knew your father. His failure to recognize that is not a strike against you.”

Her throat moves.

She looks toward the window, blinking once, hard.

“I know that,” she says.

“I believe you.”

Her mouth twists faintly. “You don’t sound convinced.”

“I think you know it here.” I tap two fingers once against my head. “I am not sure the rest of you has caught up.”