Chapter 13: Never Had
She was quiet in the car.
Not hospital quiet. Not scared quiet.
A different quiet.
I noticed because I notice everything. Stock fluctuations. Typos on page 47. The way her breath caught when the violinist hit that note at Le Cirque.
We were in my car. Clause 7.1 suspended. _Temporary suspension for medical emergency transport._ That's what I told Legal. That's what I told myself.
Her mother was stable. For now. Dr. Patel said _"hours became days, but days won't become weeks."_
She hadn't cried. Not in the hallway. Not in the room. Not when we left.
_Save it to the blood._
But now, in my car, 11:43 PM, she was looking out the window at nothing. And her hand was on the door handle. Like she might open it. Not to jump. To breathe.
"Katrina," I said.
She turned. Slow.
"The photo worked," I said. "VEG closed +1.2%. Mother's happy. Clause 4.2 satisfied."
She nodded. Automatic.
"That's not why I'm telling you."
She blinked. "Then why?"
Because you haven't said a word in twenty minutes and the last time you were this quiet, you were bleeding in a West Wing bathroom.
I didn't say that.
"Because numbers are safe for you," I said instead. "And you don't feel safe right now."
Her mouth opened. Closed.
The car stopped at a red light. 12th and Vine. Empty street.
"I asked you a question at dinner," I said. "You didn't answer."
"What question?"
"If it bothered you. That I know what this is. That I say it out loud. The transaction. The merger. The…"
"Asset," she finished. Flat.
"Yes."
She looked down at her hands. No ring. She never wore it unless there were cameras.
"It doesn't bother me that you say it," she said finally. "It bothers me that you're right."
The light turned green. I didn't move.
A horn honked behind us. I ignored it.
"At Le Cirque," I said. "When I told you to talk about Line 37. What did you feel?"
She frowned. "I was confused."
"After. When you started talking. When the camera flashed."
Her cheeks went pink. Not much. Just a hint. I wouldn't have seen it three weeks ago. Now I did.
"I... I don't know," she said. "Less... scared."
"Why?"
"Because it was numbers. Because you asked. Because..." She stopped.
"Because what?"
"Because you looked at me like I wasn't stupid for caring about them."
I'd looked at her like she was an employee giving a report.
But she didn't have a father who did that. She had Richard. She had Matteo.
"Have you ever..." I started. Then stopped. This was not Clause 5.1. This was not strategic.
But I asked anyway.
"Have you ever been looked at like that before?"
She went very still.
Then: "No."
One word.
No.
Not by Richard. Not by Matteo. Not by anyone.
Thirty two years. Straight A's. Perfect daughter. Perfect fiancée. Perfect employee.
No one had ever looked at her like she wasn't stupid for caring about numbers.
Something in my chest did something it hadn't done since I was twelve and my father told me _"Vegas don't feel. They calculate."_
It hurt.
"Katrina," I said.
She looked up.
"At the hospital. When you put your head on the bed. Your mother touched your hair. What did you feel?"
Her eyes got wet. First time since I'd known her. Not crying. But close.
"Safe," she whispered. "For a second. I felt safe."
I nodded.
"At Le Cirque," I said. "For thirty seconds. When you were talking about FX variance and the camera flashed. Did you feel safe?"
She didn't answer for a long time.
The car behind us went around. Sprayed us with headlights.
Then, so quiet I almost didn't hear:
"Yes."
One word.
Yes.
She felt safe. With me. For thirty seconds. Talking about numbers. While committing securities fraud via photograph.
"Don't name it," I said. "Don't call it anything. Don't tell yourself it's real. It's not. It's Clause 4.2. It's a performance."
She nodded.
"Okay," she said.
"But," I said.
She looked at me.
"But you're allowed to remember it. The thirty seconds. You're allowed to save it."
_Save it to the blood._
She swallowed. Nodded again.
"Have you ever felt it before?" I asked. "Safe. Like that. With anyone."
"No," she said again. "Never."
Never had.
Twenty-eight years and she'd never had thirty seconds of feeling safe with a man who looked at her like she was smart.
I put the car in drive.
"Seatbelt," I said.
She clicked it.
We drove.
No more questions.
But I watched her in the rearview.
She wasn't looking out the window anymore.
She was looking at her hands.
And she wasn't holding the door handle.