Empire of Desire by Rina Kent

12





Gwyneth





Two weeks later, I’m forced back to reality.

I’m forced to let go of the hope I held on to so tightly when Dad had his accident. Because the truth is, he’s not waking up and probably won’t. The doctor said that the more time he spends in a coma, the slimmer his chances are of coming out of it.

And even though I’ve been visiting him every day, I can feel the gloomy cloud that hovers over his hospital bed. I can tell that my dad is probably not there anymore, no matter how much I talk to him and read to him and everything in between.

And that’s just been too painful to think about, so I distracted myself with school before the summer break. And cleaning. I do that a lot when I’m anxious or stressed. I scrub floors and counters and dishes and the bathroom.

In my head, I’m scrubbing my mind clean. Does it work? For a while, maybe, but not in the long term. Because the problems far outweigh the solutions. I thought myself strong enough to take it all—let it soak in and then vanish—but maybe it’s been disintegrating me from the inside out.

The thought of the D-word happening to Dad makes me shake uncontrollably in my closet.

That’s why I need to be distracted. Summer vacation has officially started, and if I don’t keep myself occupied, I’ll go mad. I’ll live in my closet, scrubbing the floor and eating ice cream until I have some sort of a crisis.

A mental breakdown. Meltdown. Or something else that ends with down.

It doesn’t help that Susan isn’t backing off. Not even an inch. She’s still throwing suits left and right, trying to get the house back because it was her husband’s and should’ve belonged to her, but my father “stole” it.

Despite my efforts to get involved, Nate doesn’t give me many updates about her.

“I’ll handle everything,” is his signature response whenever I ask about anything.

He’s taking care of the legal side, the firm, and Dad’s hospital procedures.

Everything.

Except for me, obviously.

Ever since the day we got married, he hasn’t touched me. Not even a brush of his hand or fingers or whatever. It’s like two years ago all over again. I can recognize it when he’s pulling away from me, you know. He only speaks to me when it’s necessary, in monosyllables, and won’t stay in my company for long.

He chose a guest room on the ground floor that’s as far away from mine as physically possible while still living in the same house.

But it’s different this time.

I didn’t kiss him. I didn’t do anything, actually. He’s the one who touched me, set me on damn fire, told me I’m truly fucked and called me baby girl.

He called me baby girl.

No matter how active my imagination is, it couldn’t, even in its wildest form, have made that up.

And then he just went back to his workaholic life and left me wondering if maybe I’m losing my mind and all the tension I felt on the wedding day wasn’t there. Maybe I was too sleep-deprived to think straight. Maybe the pills made me go whacko.

But no, that can’t be true, because even after, I could taste it. The tension, I mean. It’s been thick and large and has been seeping into my lungs with every breath I take.

And that’s another reason why I’m nearing the edge. I can feel it when it happens. I find no pleasure in doing things. I hide in the closet more and even my vanilla ice cream and milkshake don’t taste the same.

Oh, and I hear the emptiness tapping at the insides of my brain.

I can’t be on the edge. The edge is where all disasters start to happen. Like insomnia and depressive thoughts and every negative word in my notebook.

So I came here.

To Weaver & Shaw’s law firm.

The main prestigious branch that’s situated in New York. Maybe going to one of the other countless ones scattered around the States and Europe would’ve been safer. The managing partners have been calling and asking about my dad and they actually like me. Which can’t be said about the person in charge of this one.

But that would mean leaving Dad’s side, and that’s not going to happen.

Anyway, I’ve been inside the building countless times before, but this is the first time that it’s felt huge and intimidating. This must be how the new applicants feel when they walk the long halls and ride the elevator to the towers.

The bright white floors and walls and the spotless glass doors and windows give it a clean, businesslike look. The setting is done this way as a psychological trick to make it trustworthy. If I were a client and walked through this place, I’d feel a sense of assurance.

But I’m not, and assurance is the last thing bleeding into my veins right now.

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in one of the glass doors and my feet falter for a second. I’m wearing a black pencil skirt and a white shirt. My rusty hair is pulled into a ponytail and my makeup is light, professional.

It killed me to not wear my denim shorts, but at least I kept the white sneakers. I just chose the simplest ones I’ve got that go with the setting.

And I’m also carrying a box of bribes.

So, the thing is, Nate doesn’t know I’m coming here today. And he’ll probably be mad. But whatever, he’s always mad in a way—and hopefully, by the time I get what I came here for, it’ll be too late for him to kick me out.