Chapter 13 - THE DAY PENELOPE QUIT
I quit.
Larkin stared at my resignation letter.
Then at me.
“No.”
I smiled.
“That is not how resignation works.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to know who I am when I’m not sitting forty feet from a man who once had a background file on my childhood.”
Fair.
He looked away.
“You could take the controls role.”
“I could.”
“And?”
“I don’t want it.”
That hurt him.
Good.
Not maliciously.
Reality.
“I spent three years making myself invisible to survive your world.”
I touched my newly grown-out dark bob.
“I don’t want my next identity built around becoming important inside it.”
Silence.
Then Larkin asked:
“What will you do?”
“Forensic accounting.”
His mouth twitched.
“Of course.”
I had already interviewed with an independent firm specializing in fraud investigations and compliance monitorships.
They knew some of my background.
Not everything.
Enough.
My starting salary was lower.
Still excellent.
Student loans manageable.
The five thousand dollars I spent on the gala dress remained the stupidest financial decision of my life.
Worth it.
My last day at Steves Holdings was strangely quiet.
No champagne.
No threats.
Thomas’s office already empty.
Investigations continued.
Larkin had begun separating legitimate holdings from criminal operations.
Not because of me alone.
His mother.
His father’s legacy.
Thomas.
Everything.
He had learned how easily secrecy became inheritance.
At five, I cleared my desk.
Gray blouses.
Old shoes.
One ceramic mug.
Then Larkin appeared.
“Dinner.”
I looked at him.
“That sounded like an order.”
He sighed.
“Would you have dinner with me?”
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
His face remained neutral.
Inside, I enjoyed it.
“Why?”
“Because today I stopped working for you.”
“That seems ideal.”
“No.”
I picked up my box.
“If we ever have dinner, I want at least a month where I know you can’t call HR, raise my salary, fire me, monitor me, or tell a driver where to take me.”
“I never—”
He stopped.
“Fair.”
Good.
I walked toward the elevator.
Then turned.
“One month.”
His eyes changed.
“That isn’t a no.”
“No.”
The elevator doors closed.
For the first time in three years, I left the tower without wondering who was watching.
One month later, Larkin sent one message.
Dinner?
No flowers.
No car.
No reservations attached.
Just question mark.
I waited six hours because I was petty.
Then:
Friday. 7. I choose the restaurant.
He replied:
Fine.
I chose a noisy Thai place in Queens.
No private room.
No mob clientele.
Plastic menus.
Larkin wore a suit anyway.
He looked deeply out of place.
I loved it.
We talked.
Not about Solstice.
Not Joseph.
Not Thomas.
Books.
College.
My mother.
His mother.
Then he said:
“I started therapy.”
I nearly choked.
“What?”
“Evelyn insisted.”
“Your mother?”
“Yes.”
“I like her already.”
“She is terrifying.”
“Excellent.”
Then he asked:
“Why the gray clothes?”
I thought.
“Invisibility.”
“I know.”
“Also laundry.”
He laughed.
I had never heard him laugh properly.
That was dangerous.
Not mafia dangerous.
Different.
At the end, he asked:
“Again?”
I said yes.
Slowly.
No rescue.
No debt.
No salary.
Choice.
Then three months later, my new firm assigned me a case.
Client:
A hospitality group.
Suspected internal laundering.
I opened the file.
Company name:
BELLINI MARITIME HOSPITALITY.
Roman Bellini.
I stared.
May you like
Then laughed.
Apparently my past had terrible boundaries.
