his own hands. They were raw, calloused, and smeared with a thin film of blood from the crystal. “I’m bleeding,” Dean said, his voice hoarse. It was the first time he had spoken to her. “I don’t care.” Audrey replied. Dean hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then, he reached up. He didn’t take her hand fully. He didn’t want to stain her skin, but he gripped her wrist using her leverage to pull himself up from the freezing floor. His joints ached. His rented pants were ruined. “Come with me.” she said. She didn’t wait for an answer. She turned and began walking toward a set of heavy mahogany doors off the main hall.
He didn’t look back at Preston who was still on his knees wiping the floor with his own ruin. The room they entered was a private study insulated from the chaos outside by thick oak doors and heavy velvet curtains. The walls were lined with leather-bound books that looked like they had never been read. A fire crackled quietly in a massive stone hearth. The silence was immediate and profound. It pressed against Dean’s ears after the crushing noise of the reception hall. Audrey walked over to a dark wood credenza. She opened a drawer, pulled out a white industrial first aid kit, and set it on a massive leather desk. “Sit.” she said pointing to a high-backed leather chair. Dean remained standing by the door. His instincts, honed by years of surviving corporate hierarchy and crushing poverty, were screaming at him. The power dynamic in this room was wrong. Billionaire CEOs did not tend to the wounds of low-level archivists. “How much is this going to cost me?” Dean asked. His voice was flat, defensive. Audrey stopped opening the first aid kit. She looked up at him. “Excuse me?”
“I know how this works.” Dean said taking a step further into the room but refusing to sit. The wet fabric of his trousers clung uncomfortably to his legs. You just humiliated a very connected man. You canceled a wedding that probably cost more than I’ll make in three lifetimes. I’m the collateral damage. So, tell me right now, am I fired? Because if I am, I need to know so I can start making calls tomorrow. Audrey stared at him. The cold, mechanical mask she had worn in the reception hall cracked slightly. She looked at his cheap, ill-fitting suit. She looked at the blood drying on his palms. You think I brought you in here to fire you? I think people in your tax bracket don’t do things by accident. Dean countered. His cynicism bleeding through his exhaustion. You needed an excuse to dump him. I was convenient. I get it. But my insurance is tied to my job. And if I lose that, my kid loses her medication. So just give it to me straight.
Audrey absorbed his words. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t offer a patronizing apology. She simply pointed at the leather chair again. Sit down, Dean. She knew his name. That fact alone sent a cold spike of adrenaline through him. I am not firing you. Dean hesitated. Then slowly walked over and sat on the edge of the chair. It was ridiculously soft. He felt like dirt sullying something pristine. Audrey walked around the desk. She pulled up a smaller wooden stool and sat directly in front of him. She opened the plastic box, took out a pair of tweezers and an antiseptic wipe. Give me your hands. She ordered. Dean extended his hands. They shook slightly, betraying the adrenaline still crashing through his system. Audrey took his left hand. Her grip was firm, surprisingly strong. She began to carefully extract a tiny splinter of crystal embedded near his thumb. You’re right. Audrey said quietly. Her eyes focused on his palm. I was looking for an excuse. Preston was a mistake, a calculated one that backfired. He was careless, arrogant, and cruel, but he hid it well enough in board rooms. I suspected what he really was, but I needed to see it.
She dropped the shard of glass into a metal wastebasket. It made a sharp ping. Why didn’t you hit him? She asked abruptly. She looked up, her dark eyes locking onto his. He dropped a glass on your shoes and told you to clean it up like a dog. You are a grown man. I saw your face. You wanted to kill him. Why did you get on your knees? Dean’s jaw tightened. The anger, the shame, the sheer exhausting burden of his reality flared in his chest. I told you. Dean said, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. My daughter, Maddie, she has asthma. The inhalers are $42 with the Kensington corporate health plan. Without it, they’re $280. I make $17 an hour. My rent went up 15% last month. My car needs a new alternator. He pulled his hand back slightly, but Audrey held on. I didn’t hit him. Dean continued, the bitter truth pouring out of him. Because if I hit him, I go to jail. I lose my job. I lose the apartment. Maddie sleeps in a shelter. That’s the math. That’s my whole world. I swallowed my pride because my pride doesn’t buy her winter coats. I got on my knees because I had to. He stopped breathing heavily, instantly regretting the outburst. You don’t show the ruling class your weak spots. They just use them to press you harder.
Audrey didn’t say anything for a long time. She took an antiseptic wipe and gently dabbed at the small cut on his thumb. The alcohol stung, but Dean didn’t flinch. When I was 9 years old, Audrey said, her voice dropping to a low, quiet cadence that belonged only in this room. My father took me to one of his factories. Not Kensington Global. This was before the acquisitions. It was a textile mill. Hot, loud, dangerous. She threw the used wipe in the trash and opened a sterile bandage. There was a foreman there. She continued, a massive, cruel man.