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His tone gives me pause. I cock my head and look at him closely for the first time since Chicago. “Why do you still work for Paul?” I ask him. “He treats you like dirt.”
Clark just shrugs. “It’s part of the job. Besides, Mr. Morgan is under way more stress than me.”
I blink, unnerved by his response, and suddenly deeply ashamed by my own behavior toward Katie. Am I really acting like Paul toward my subordinates now? No wonder Anna was so upset.
Before I can respond to Clark though, the door behind him opens. Bill walks out, Paul at his side. With the unerring instinct of professional underlings, Clark and I both immediately fade out of their path.
Paul is too busy slapping Bill on the back to notice us. “Give it a week to sink in, Bill,” he says. “You’ll feel like a new man. I always say, screw chicken soup — it’s divorce that’s good for the soul. Reminds you how young you are. And I’m sure a guy like you will have plenty of options.”
My eyes fix on Bill, wanting, praying, to see him smirking and agreeing with Paul’s sleazy predictions.
No such luck.
My heart sinks. Bill looks like he was just crying. His own manila envelope is clutched tightly in one sweaty hand. Misery is etched in every line in his face, a face that looks about five years older than it did the last time I saw him.
Oh god he’s devastated about this too.
Bill barely acknowledges me. In fact, it appears as if he doesn’t even recognize me, giving the vaguest of polite nods and continuing out of the office.
I watch him go, numb. Then I turn and see Paul watching me watch Bill. He looks displeased, as if he can smell my rebellious thoughts.
“Liz, come talk to me,” he says, turning and leaving the door open so I can follow.
Clark gives me a strained look as I pass and closes the door behind me.
Paul is standing at the large window at the head of his office, hands behind his back, looking out over the view of the Hudson.
“Where is he going?” I ask.
From Paul’s pose, I assume he’s about to ask me some vaguely philosophical question with a story and lesson attached to it.
I don’t have the patience for either at the moment.
Paul turns and appraises me. Then he says, “Bill is on his way out of the city,” he says. “He’s signing his divorce papers, dropping them off at Marie’s lawyer’s office, and flying to Florida where he’ll hopefully do very well on the golf course.”
He can’t leave. I need to talk to him.
“I need to go,” I say, turning. Before I get my hand on the door, Paul stops me with a sharp word.
“Stay right there, Ms. Slate.”
I turn reluctantly.
Paul crosses his office step by step until he’s towering over me. “You can leave,” he growls. “But you will not go after Bill. You will do nothing to prevent this divorce from proceeding. Is that clear?”
“Bill hates golf,” I say flatly.
Paul raises his eyebrows. “I hardly see how that matters.”
I cock my head, realization flooding through me. “So you know,” I say.
“You’d be surprised what people tell their banker,” Paul says. “Yes, I know all about Bill and Marie’s… inclinations.”
His distaste makes their hobbies sound like abnormalities.
“Bill thinks you’re his friend,” I accuse.
Paul just laughs. “I’m his banker. And you know this business well enough to know that we don’t have friends. We have accounts. And I’d like you to give me one good reason why I should turn down getting paid double for managing both of them. This is about to be our greatest quarter yet.”
