Chapter 9 - Beyond the Gilt-Edged Mirror
The night air was crisp, smelling of pine and distant rain. As the heavy doors of the estate closed behind us, cutting off the tin-can echoes of the string quartet, the weight of twenty-eight years of invisible labor finally lifted from my shoulders.
In the backseat of the car, bathed in the soft amber glow of the interior reading lights, Emmett opened the dossier, scanning my notes with a look of profound satisfaction.
“You carved him up like a Thanksgiving turkey back there,” Emmett remarked, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. “Do you realize what this does to his social standing in Boston?”
“I didn't carve him up, Emmett,” I said, leaning my head back against the plush leather headrest. “I simply stopped holding up the scaffolding for his delusions. He built a house of cards on the assumption that no one would ever look behind the curtain. All I did was pull the string.”
“Well,” Emmett said, snapping the leather folder shut and turning to me with a gaze that held entirely different dimensions than the boardrooms we usually shared. “Since your schedule has suddenly opened up for the evening, and since your brother’s caterers apparently forgot to feed the children's table, how do you feel about late-night ramen in Cambridge?”
May you like
I smiled, feeling more alive, more powerful, and more entirely myself than I ever had in my entire life.
“Only if I get to drive.”
