Reborn To The Day I Chose My Nemesis novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: Not Saying Yes

Diana turns Bryson down in front of the whole foundation floor. He takes her wrist and his mask slips, and Marcy is already on the phone telling a doctor Diana is confused.

I put my hand flat on the first page before the pen touched it.

"Dad. One week. You promised."

He held the pen above the paper and looked from me to the courier.

"Tell Bryson I'll sign on Friday," he said finally. "Next Friday."

The courier shifted his feet.

"Mr. Lasker said I'm to wait, sir."

"Then you'll wait on the porch," Dad said, and shut the door.

Marcy was still standing in the kitchen with her hands folded.

"Arthur, it's only a formality," she said gently. "Bryson's been so careful about all this."

"Then it'll keep," I said.

She smiled at me, and I smiled back, and I put on my coat.

I drove to the foundation with my father's pill organizer in my bag.

The two capsules were in an envelope in my pocket.

The Pellam Foundation had the second floor of an old brick bank on Main Street, with my father's name still on the glass.

It was nine-forty on a Friday, and every desk was full.

Bryson was in the glass conference room at the end, talking to two board members.

His sleeves were rolled to the elbow.

He saw me and lit up.

He came out with his arms open, in his pressed blue shirt, and the whole floor watched him do it.

"There's my girl. I thought you'd be getting your hair done."

I stepped back before he could hug me.

"I need two minutes, Bryson."

"Of course." He took my elbow. "Let's go in my office."

"Here is fine."

The typing nearby slowed down.

Bryson's smile held.

"Diana. People are working."

"Then they'll hear this quickly." I kept my voice level.

"I'm not coming to dinner tonight, and I'm not saying yes. Please don't ask me."

Nobody typed.

A young woman at the nearest desk looked at her screen with great attention.

"Sweetheart, you're tired," Bryson said softly.

"I'm not marrying you."

"We talked about this last week."

"I was wrong last week."

He glanced around and saw the faces.

He stepped closer, and his voice went low and warm.

"You're upset. That's all right. We'll talk about it at home tonight."

"We don't have a home."

"Diana."

His hand closed around my wrist.

It wasn't hard.

That was Bryson, all through my year as his wife.

He never did anything hard enough to leave a mark.

I looked down at his fingers, and then I looked up at the people watching.

"Please let go of me," I said, loud enough for the whole floor.

For a moment his face emptied.

The warmth went out of it, and what was underneath was flat, and impatient, and entirely sure of itself.

Then he let go, and the smile came back so smoothly I almost doubted what I'd seen.

"Of course," he said. "Of course. I'd never hold you against your will."

He had held me against it for a year.

"Thank you," I said.

I turned for the stairs.

"Diana." He spoke quietly this time, so only I could hear.

"Everyone already thinks you've said yes," he said. "You'll say it tonight."

I stopped with one hand on the rail.

"I never told anyone yes."

"You did." He tilted his head, puzzled and tender. "Marcy told them for you."

That was when I saw her.

She was standing at the head of the stairs with her phone to her ear.

She had followed me.

She wasn't surprised at all.

"Yes, Doctor, right away," she said into the phone.

Her eyes met mine, full of concern.

"She's not herself," she told him. "She's been confused all week. Could you meet us at the house this afternoon?"

The floor went silent again.

Marcy lowered the phone and walked to me with her hand out.

"Sweetheart," she said, loudly enough for every desk to hear. "We're so worried about you."

Behind her, the young woman at the nearest desk had stopped looking at her screen.

She was looking at me now, with doubt in her face.

Bryson stood by the glass conference room with his hands in his pockets, looking sorry for me.

I understood what they were doing.

This was how it had started, the first time.

A doctor, a diagnosis, and a roomful of witnesses who had seen Diana Pellam fall apart in public.

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