THE MAN FROM HER PAST
923 Words
Sera Pov
I stood there and looked at him and did the mental arithmetic of the last ten years. He had grown into the face he'd had in high school — all of the sharp angles had settled into something that belonged on him now rather than something he was still growing into. He was watching me with the particular attention of someone who had been waiting for a specific reaction and was prepared to wait as long as it took.
"Declan Moretti," I said.
"Sera Caleb," he said.
"It's Salvador now."
Something crossed his face briefly. "I know."
"Of course you do." I pulled my bag up onto my shoulder. "I'm going to leave."
"You can," he said. He didn't move. "The door isn't locked."
I looked at the door. I looked at him.
"You made my life hell for two years," I said.
"I know."
"That's it? You know?"
"Would you prefer I pretended I didn't?"
I stared at him. "I'd prefer an explanation. An apology. Something that isn't just you sitting there looking at me like I'm supposed to be impressed by how unbothered you are."
He was quiet for a moment.
"I was seventeen," he said. "I didn't know how to talk to you. You didn't care who my father was. You didn't care about my money or what table I sat at or any of the things that everyone else cared about. You looked straight through all of it." He picked up one of the cards from the table and turned it over in his fingers. "You were the only person I couldn't control. I didn't know what to do with that."
"So you made sure everyone around you treated me like I didn't belong."
"Yes," he said. "That was a coward's move. I was a coward."
I laughed. Not warmly. "You're telling me that bullying me for two years was a crush."
"I'm telling you I didn't know what else to do with it." He set the card down. "I'm not asking you to forgive me for being seventeen and stupid. I'm telling you what it was."
"What it was," I said, "was a problem."
"I know."
I walked toward the door. He did not follow.
My hand was on the handle when he said, "I've watched your career since law school."
I stopped.
"The class action you won in two thousand and twenty-one," he said. "The Delacroix case that everyone said was unwinnable. The property fraud case last year that got those families their homes back. I read about all of them."
I turned around.
"Why," I said.
He looked at me. "Because you were the only person I couldn't control and I wanted to know what you became."
The room was very quiet.
"You lost a case today," he said. "And your husband was sleeping with your best friend. And you walked into my club and sat down at a private table and bet ten thousand dollars you almost certainly don't have on a hand you were never going to win." He paused. "You're not here because you're reckless. You're here because you're done being careful."
I stood by the door for a long moment.
The thing about Declan Moretti was that he was right. I hated that he was right. I hated that he had read me in four hours with more accuracy than my husband had managed in three years. I hated the way he sat there and didn't push. Didn't reach for me. Just waited with the absolute confidence of someone who understood that pushing was unnecessary.
I let go of the door handle.
What happened after that, I told myself later, was about taking back control. About choosing instead of having choices made for me. About being someone who acted instead of absorbed.
That was what I told myself.
It was not entirely untrue.
By the time it was over, the room was dark and the music from the floors below was distant and Declan was looking at me with the expression of a man who had just had a fundamental belief confirmed.
"Don't," I said.
"Don't what?"
"Whatever you're about to say."
He said nothing. Which was worse.
I found my clothes. I found my bag. I checked my phone and saw that I had three missed calls from Camilla and sent her a message and got one back that said she was fine and that we would talk tomorrow.
I left without saying goodbye. He did not try to stop me.
In the elevator going down, I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes and thought: okay. Okay. Whatever that was, it is finished, and tomorrow I will go back to being Sera Caleb and I will start figuring out how to rebuild my life.
The lobby was empty at this hour. The doorman held the door without looking at me.
I stepped out onto the street.
The air was cold and the city was still moving, the way it always was, indifferent and continuous. I unlocked my phone to call a cab.
I stopped.
The screen was crowded with notifications.
Missed calls from Ethan. From Mark. From Pamela which made no sense because I hadn't contacted Pamela, I had only recorded her, and she had no way of knowing..
The last message was from an unknown number.
I opened it.
Four words.
“We need to talk.”
And then, in the next message sent two minutes later:
“I know what you did last night.”
- Writer
