CHAPTER FIVE
1088 Words
LAYLA'S POV
Victoria Ashford was beautiful in the way that expensive, maintained things are beautiful. Perfectly dressed, perfectly poised, not a single thing about her accidental. She sat on the living room sofa like she owned it, which I supposed in some historical sense she probably did, and looked at me the way people look at furniture they're deciding whether to keep or return.
I sat across from her and kept my face neutral.
Cole sat beside me. Close enough that our knees were nearly touching. I didn't know if it was deliberate but I was grateful for it.
"So," Victoria said, setting her bag on the cushion beside her. "A nurse."
"Yes," I said.
"Which hospital?"
"Mercy General. ER department."
"How long?"
"Four years since I qualified. Six if you count my training placement."
She smiled pleasantly. "And before that?"
"I grew up in Queens. Went to City College on a partial scholarship. Worked through school." I kept my tone even and factual, the same way I talked to difficult patients. Not defensive. Not eager. Just clear. "I don't have a complicated background, Mrs. Ashford. I imagine you already know that."
Something shifted in her eyes. Fractional. Gone in less than a second.
"Cole tells me the marriage was sudden," she said, redirecting smoothly.
"It was efficient," Cole said beside me. "Which is what the situation required."
"Mm." She looked between us. "And you're comfortable, Layla? With all of this? It's quite a significant change. A different world entirely from what you're used to."
There it was. Wrapped in pleasantry, tied with concern. *You don't belong here and we both know it.*
"I'm adaptable," I said. "Nursing teaches you that."
"I imagine it does." She picked a piece of invisible lint from her sleeve. "And your family? They must be pleased."
"My mother is focused on her health at the moment. But yes, she's happy for me."
"Her health." Victoria's expression arranged itself into sympathy. The precise, practiced kind. "Nothing serious, I hope."
She knew. I could see it in the half-second before she asked, she already had the answer. This was a test of whether I would be honest or strategic. I chose honesty.
"Cancer," I said. "She's responding well to treatment."
"Oh, how difficult." She touched her collarbone briefly. The universal gesture of performed concern. "Well. Family health is so important. One does whatever one must for the people we love."
The way she said it landed differently than the words suggested. Like she was filing something. I held her gaze and smiled and said nothing.
Cole shifted beside me. "Mother. Was there something specific you needed, or was this purely a social call?"
"Can't I visit my son on his wedding week?"
"You can. You usually don't."
A flicker of something genuine crossed her face. There and gone. She stood smoothly, collecting her bag, adjusting her jacket. Performance complete, decision made, whatever she came for, gathered.
"I simply wanted to meet Layla," she said. "And now I have." She looked at me one final time. The smile stayed fixed. "We'll have lunch soon. Just the two of us. I'd love to get to know you properly."
"I'd like that," I said.
We both knew I was lying. I suspected she respected it.
Cole walked her to the door. I stayed on the sofa and listened to their voices in the entryway, low, brief, the particular compression of two people saying many things in a few words. The door closed. Cole came back and sat in the armchair across from me instead of beside me. The shift in position felt significant.
"You did well," he said.
"I didn't do anything. I answered questions."
"With her, that is the thing." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "She came to measure you. She'll go home now and decide how to handle you."
"And what does handling me look like?"
"Depends what she found." He studied me for a moment. "She'll either try to befriend you to get information, or she'll try to isolate you so you have no allies here. Sometimes she does both at once."
I looked at him steadily. "You grew up with her."
"Yes."
"I'm sorry," I said. I meant it simply, without weight. He blinked, just once, quickly, as if the plainness of it surprised him.
"It was manageable," he said.
"It wasn't," I said. "But alright."
He looked at me for a moment longer than he needed to, then stood. "I got a call this morning. Edmund can show you the rest of the building if you want to orientate yourself. The gym, the terrace, the parking level."
"I'm working a half shift today," I said.
He stopped. "You're going into work."
"I gave notice last week but I have commitments through the end of the month. Patients I'm midway through with. I'm not abandoning them because my address changed." I stood as well. "It's not in the contract that I stop working."
"No," he said slowly. "It isn't."
"Then it's not a discussion." I picked up my coffee mug from the table. "I'll be back by six. I'll stay out of the schedule."
He said nothing. Watched me move toward the hallway. I was almost at the corridor when he spoke.
"Layla."
I stopped. Turned.
He was still standing in the middle of the living room with his hands in his pockets and an expression I hadn't seen before, something between calculation and something less controlled than calculation.
"She's going to come at you from an angle you won't see coming," he said. "That's how she operates. I want you to be prepared."
"What angle?"
He looked at me for a long moment. Like he was deciding how much to give.
"She'll find whatever you want most," he said. "And she'll offer it. And the price will be something you won't realize you've paid until it's already gone."
I held his gaze. "What does she think I want most?"
He didn't answer immediately. And when he did, it was quiet enough that I had to stay very still to catch it.
"She thinks you want to belong here," he said. "She's going to find out very quickly that she's wrong about that."
I felt something tighten in my chest. "And what do you think I want?"
He studied me. Long and careful and completely unreadable.
"I think that's the first thing about you I genuinely don't know," he said. "And I find that I can't stop thinking about it.”
- Writer
