“Please,” Sandra said. “That’s all I’m asking.”
Cloe sat at her desk on the fourteenth floor with Mac’s office door open behind her and the city outside and Sandra’s text on her screen and the specific stillness of a woman deciding what kind of person she wanted to be right now.
She had options.
She could ignore it. Sandra had said what she needed to say in the statement, in the envelope, in the email. The corrections were on record. The wedding was in three weeks. She had chosen the ordinary life and this was the thing that arrived to test whether she meant it.
She could also choose to hear her out.
She texted back.
Why.
Sandra’s response came in two minutes.
Because what Leo has is going to look worse than it is. And some of it involves you in a way you don’t know yet. I owe you
