I turned. “But you’re busy.”

“I’m always busy,” he retorted. “Get on with it.”

I groaned inwardly, understanding why he was so open to seeing me now.

A weight settled in my stomach, but I hid it as well as I could as I stepped toward his desk again.

I kept my voice low and gave him a fake close-lipped smile. “You’re enjoying seeing my dignity as a muddy puddle on the floor, aren’t you?”

The corner of his mouth lifted, and he locked eyes with me again. “I think that’s understandable after your behavior, don’t you?”

I averted my eyes, licking my lips.

I hated his gloating, but I couldn’t say he was wrong. I’d earned this dose of humility. No matter how vile his e-mail was, I should never have lowered myself to his level. The animosity would only hurt Christian.

“Mr. Marek.” I took a deep breath, bracing myself. “I had no right to say what I said,” I told him. “And I was very wrong. I know nothing about you or your son, and I lashed out.”

“Like a brat,” he added, staring at me with condescension.

Yes, like a brat.

I dropped my eyes, remembering how I’d never gotten angry as a child. When I started to become a woman, though, I raced to fury, throwing my racket when I’d fault or yelling when I was frustrated.

I’d been under stress at the time, I’d been caged, and I’d hated the loss of control. Now I had control, and I resented anything that threatened it.

Marek kept pushing into my space – the meeting the other day and then the e-mail today – but I knew my job.

I knew what I was doing. Why didn’t he see that?

I raised my eyes, staring back up at him. “I truly apologize.”

“Are you really sorry?” He grabbed a gray file folder and a pen as he rounded the desk. “Or are you more afraid you’ll lose your job?”

I narrowed my eyes. “You’re insinuating I’m apologizing out of fear?”

He cocked his head, telling me with his amused eyes that’s exactly what he was thinking.

“Mr. Marek,” I said in a firm voice, standing tall. “I don’t do things I don’t want to do. I don’t need to beg for anything or bow down to anyone. If I apologize, it’s because I know I did something wrong,” I affirmed. “It was a cruel thing to say, and you didn’t deserve it.”

A hint of a smile peeked out, but he hid it almost immediately. He let out a sigh, his eyes softening, and he turned around, making his way for the head of the conference table.

“Ms. Bradbury is Christian’s history teacher,” he pointed out to everyone at the table, looking back at me and grinning as he tossed the folder onto the table. “She doesn’t think much of me.”

I snorted, but I didn’t think anyone heard it.

The man seated to his left laughed. “You’re not alone, honey.” He tipped his chin at me.

Marek grabbed a piece of paper, balled it up, and threw it at him, only making the man laugh more.

The two seemed close, and I faltered at seeing Marek playful.

“I’m Jay, his brother.” The man rose from his chair and held out his hand.

I hesitated for only a moment before walking to the other half of the room and up the step to the table.

The office was massive, but it was partitioned by what had to be a ten-foot-long pane of glass separating – but not closing off – the room into two parts: Marek’s office and a private conference area, probably for his convenience.

After all, why go down to another floor and meet with your personnel when you could make them all come up to you?

I shook Jay’s hand, at once liking his easy smile and humor. I couldn’t help but glance over, seeing Marek watching me.

His navy blue suit went well with the steel-gray walls, and I liked how some of his black hair had fallen out of place over his temple.

Everyone at the table – men and women – were dressed in business attire, and they looked like they’d been here a while. Papers, laptops, and phones were spread over the table in no discernible order, and I had to push away the pinpricks under my skin, urging me to organize their shit.

Plates with croissants and bagels were scattered about, while half-filled glasses of water sweated with condensation, their ice cubes having long since melted.

I wondered how long they’d been here. On a Saturday, no less.

“You don’t have to worry, Easton. We’re fine,” I heard Marek say, and I shot my eyes back over to him. “Apology accepted, but my e-mail does still stand.”

I rubbed my thumbs across my fingers, trying to remember what he was referring to.

He’d called me Easton.

“I’m against a fourteen-year-old on social media, and I can’t imagine I’m the only parent uncomfortable with it.” His tone was firm but gentler than it had been on the phone. “Adjustments will have to be made.”

Ah, back to this.

I kept my face even, about to suggest again that we sit down and talk through this, because I wasn’t giving up, but someone else spoke up first.

“Social media?” a man to my right asked. “Jesus, Facebook has taken over my kids’ lives. It’s all they do,” he blurted out, chiming in on the conversation and looking around to his colleagues. “You know, my sixteen-year-old actually wants a mount in the shower with waterproof casing for his phone. I’m surprised he hasn’t glued it to his hand.”