Snapdragon (Love Conquers None Book 1)

by Kilby Blades

  “Fuck,” he commiserated softly. “I’m sorry. That’s gotta be the last thing you want.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes again, and knocked her off of her script. That he knew implicitly that this would be a tragedy for her melted her resolve. Here she was, trying to find a way to break up with him, and he was thinking about how to comfort her.

  “It won’t be president,” she sniffed, trying to get a hold on herself. “He’ll be the running mate,” she clarified. “But the scale will be the same. The stakes are higher for him this time. He’ll do whatever he has to, to win.”

  She saw the moment Michael admitted to himself what he had probably suspected since she’d sent the text. But she didn’t have the courage to deliver the death blow yet. She tried to remember the words she had rehearsed.

  “This has nothing to do with us.” Michael was indignant. But she came back just as strongly.

  “You still don’t get it. Being with me makes it worse for you. He can’t look like he’s caving because his daughter is dating the enemy. If he loses, everyone will say he was swayed because of me or that he made a behind-the-scenes deal with you. Distancing ourselves from one another will be the only thing that gives him incentives to go easier on you.”

  “No.” Michael’s eyes blazed. “He doesn’t get to dictate who I see. Did his campaign lackey tell you to do this?”

  His anger was sparking her own fire.

  “I don’t give a fuck about his campaign. I give a fuck about you. I don’t want to be the reason why his attack is five times worse.”

  Something in Michael’s eyes changed when he realized he had upset her. When he spoke, he was the voice of reason once again.

  “Look…I’ve thought this through. Now that a national election is in play, that’ll change the plan a bit. But it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

  “You do not know what he is capable of.”

  “I’m not without resources, Darby.”

  “You can’t beat him,” she shot back. “The stories I could tell you would make you sick.”

  But Michael just shook his head. “I have a plan and I know what I’m doing. Thank you for offering to protect me. But believe me when I tell you I don’t need it.”

  Darby blew out a frustrated breath. Michael’s confidence bordered on delusion. Chicago was a crooked town and Frank Christensen was the reigning crook. She had hoped that fact alone would convince Michael that parting ways was a good idea. But it wasn’t working and it was time to talk about the rest.

  “It’s not just that…” she said finally, dropping the second bomb. “It’s all of it.”

  That silenced him.

  “All of what?”

  She sighed. “All the not talking about important things.”

  “Look how great that’s turning out now.”

  He shook his head and wiped his gloved hand over his face. She saw then how tired he looked. She had spent days preparing for this conversation. He’d just finished a twenty-one hour haul from Australia. But his voice, when he spoke, was determined.

  “I leave certain things alone because talking about them would only make them more complicated, and complicated is the one thing we promised we wouldn’t do. Do you want me to bring up all the events I don’t take you to because I don’t want to place you in the precarious position of being seen raising funds for a cause that goes against your father? Am I wrong for wanting to save you from uncomfortable questions about his politics? Everything you don’t know about has kept you out of the line of fire.”

  Darby felt tired now too. “I don’t need saving, Michael. I need to be told the truth.”

  The words rang true in her own ears, and in that moment Darby understood why this hurt so much. Hiding parts of himself away from her felt all too familiar. So did always having an angle, always having a plan. Add in the fact that he was so handsome and charismatic as he played his cards, and Darby saw what had really been bothering her. Michael reminded her of her father a little too much.

  She knew that they were nothing alike—her father had hidden his own bad deeds. Michael, quite the opposite, had hidden many good and noble ones. But it was the secrecy she hated—the manipulation, the veiled message that she didn’t factor as important enough to know. The thought knocked the wind out of her for a second. Michael, looking concerned, steadied her body with his hands on her waist. She breathed slowly—two beats in, two beats out—to stave off her panic. Looking into his eyes grounded her. As she calmed, he met her, breath for breath.

  “I’m sorry,” Michael said then, in a heartbreaking voice. “I shouldn’t have decided for you.”

  And it was the apology of all apologies. It was full of sincerity and remorse. It had nothing to do with the word he had certainly figured out that she’d been ready to say. It wasn’t about getting what he wanted. It was about doing the right thing. She could tell in that moment that he understood his mistake. She could tell that he would take this new piece of information he had learned about her and use it to make her happier, just as he had done with every other piece of information he had learned about her. Because that was who he was. Unlike her father, Michael was a good man.

  And in that moment, she knew that she didn’t have the strength to end it. It was fucked up and complicated and messy as hell, but it was too good—he was too good to give up. She had never had anything this good before, and she had to see it as far as it would go. Even if Michael didn’t know what he was in for. Even if it ended on his terms. Even if it broke her heart.

  DARBY HAD NEVER BEEN ONE to show emotion at work, yet for the past hour, she’d locked herself in the safety of her lab and sat in the supply closet, bawling. Her face was bathed in hot tears, her nose was running and she held her pounding head in her hands. She had ended her shift a full two hours before, but the devastating blow Huck had dealt with such casual brutality had crushed her.

  “It’s my duty to inform you that your research project has been transferred.” He had said it matter-of-factly the second he closed the door to his office. “Dr. Stroh will stay on as the neurologist, but a new psychopharmacologist will be brought in as your replacement. I wish things had been different, but my hands are tied.”

  Her immediate reaction had been outrage. But she had scolded herself to keep it in check. “On what grounds?” she had managed to get out. The fact that Huck was using the passive voice, as if he hadn’t been the orchestrator of what had happened, was insulting.

  “Your other work is slipping, Darby, and people have noticed. I tried to protect you from the higher-ups, but you didn’t turn things around. Based on your review, other aspects of your employment were already under scrutiny. If I were you, I’d focus on that and try to keep your job.”

  She’d walked out of his office then, feeling numb as she staggered to her lab one floor below. She had swiped her key card to enter, happy that at least it still worked. After closing the window blinds and forgetting to turn off the lights, she went into her closet and sank down on the floor.

  Based on the case Michael was helping her build, she knew she could eventually counteract whatever Huck had planned. But she needed more time, and it appeared that she was out of it. Even if she managed to get herself out of this mess, her reputation would be permanently marked. She had failed, and she didn’t know how to forgive herself for that.

  So she cried. And cried some more, the room darkening gradually as the sun set outside. It felt like everything was falling apart. Her father’s election loomed closer. Things with Michael felt different even though two weeks had passed since their serious talk. And the one thing that motivated her to come to work anymore—her research—was being taken away.

  Her phone vibrated. Once. Twice. Three times, all of them texts. When it finally rang, she reached into the pocket of her lab coat as she recognized the tone. It was Michael calling from Sydney. She had been avoiding him a little, but her heart leapt some at seeing his name on the screen. For all they were going through, his was stil
l the one voice that she wanted to hear. He was probably calling to talk logistics about the weekend—to find out whether they would leave from downtown together on Friday, or whether she would pick him up from O’Hare.

  “Hey,” she whispered, trying not to sound as devastated as she was, but knowing full well that he would hear her distress.

  “Please tell me.” His voice was careful, as if it took him effort to remain calm.

  “Huck pulled me from my research. I just found out.” She sniffled, then sighed shakily, knowing she had to tell him. “And it’s not the project they’re getting rid of—it’s just me.”

  This invited a fresh round of tears. Darby covered her mouth and bit her lip to keep herself from sobbing again. She heard Michael take measured breaths, and she remembered the look on his face when she’d told him about the performance review.

  “Tell me exactly what he said.”

  She briefed him on their curt conversation.

  “I’ll handle this,” Michael said.

  She didn’t know what to say. There was no doubt in her mind that he could fix this. They’d both been preparing for it. She wondered whether Michael would speak with the Board President to get her reinstated. She had never liked the idea of Michael pulling this lever and after finding out about how many chess pieces he’d been moving on his own, she felt less and less comfortable accepting his help. Just because she hadn’t walked away didn’t mean she’d forgotten her reasons for wanting to end things. Not having gone through with it didn’t change the fact that things between them were not what she had thought.

  Besides, Darby thought, whatever Michael was planning would only be a short-term gain that would win her the battle, but not the war. The real war was still being fought, through HR and private investigators, and every other card Darby had tried to put herself in a position to play.

  “Michael—” she began, but he cut her off immediately.

  “I’ll handle it. By tomorrow, you’ll have it back.”

  And she didn’t say anything to try to stop him. Part of her was too weak to protest, part of her wanted—just this once—to be rescued. After all, it was her project. She loved it, and Huck was trying to cheat her out of it. In her better moments, Darby was a warrior. She fought hard for her patients. She had given up every chance at a normal life to craft an amazing career, doing work that she cared about deeply. Even if it meant accepting Michael’s help, and even if she didn’t like using influence like this, she didn’t want to walk away without a fight.

  Michael hadn’t said much after that. He’d only given her instructions to leave her car in the garage and to take a different car that would arrive downstairs in fifteen minutes to pick her up.

  “Don’t answer your phone, or your door, or your e-mail for anybody but me,” he had told her sternly. “And if someone corners you in the hallway on your way out, actively deny that anything’s wrong. Do you understand?”

  She’d acquiesced, noting his cryptic instructions, but too weak to wonder about his big plan. He promised to call her the next day, and to see her when she fetched him at O’Hare.

  At home, she took a long shower, drank a huge glass of red wine, and fell asleep.

  She woke up the next day to a hangover, though she guessed she’d asked for it. It hadn’t been the smartest idea to fill her large wine glass to the brim and gulp it down with no food in her stomach. She popped a Zofran, donned fresh scrubs, grabbed a ginger ale and slipped on dark glasses. She had planned to hail a cab, but when she walked out into the bright morning light, she found a town car waiting for her, identical to the one Michael had sent the night before.

  The ride to the hospital was spent in dreadful anticipation of what was to come: a saved job and a more furious boss. Even if Huck couldn’t prove it, it would be obvious to him that Darby had pulled some strings to save herself. He would find a way to punish her for this. She’d been a daughter of politics long enough to witness unscrupulous men—her own father was a study in stopping at nothing to get what he wanted.

  She thought about the other things Huck had said—about Rich staying on. Rich would tell her the second he heard anything about the new lead researcher, so she had to assume that he didn’t know. But what about her replacement? It could as easily be one of her colleagues as it could be someone new. She wondered what that person had been told. She didn’t even want to think about the grant review board. This kind of change was one that Huck didn’t have the authority to pull off on his own. It would have been discussed with a much larger group of stakeholders, meaning that even if Darby got to keep her fellowship, her peers would already have a negative opinion about her.

  Eager to avoid everyone and everything, she took the stairs from the parking garage to her floor instead of taking the elevator. She took a longer way than she needed in order to sneak into her office. Her laptop sat on its dock, still open from the night before. The light on her phone blinked insistently, indicating that she had voicemail. She hit the speaker button to listen as she keyed in her computer’s password.

  It was time to face the music. Any second now, Huck’s grating voice would begin, demanding that she come to his office to either chew her out or make some excuse for her reinstatement that let him save face. God, he was nuts. The fact that she willingly walked into a minefield every day was a testament to how much she cared about her research.

  “Bollocks, Darby, where are you?” Rich’s recorded voice startled her. “I’ve texted you ten times. Can you return my call? I want to talk to you before the meeting. There are rumors they’re appointing a new chief. Is it true? If you didn’t tell me, I swear I’ll…” his voice faltered, revealing the emptiness of his threat. “…I’ll be very cross. Call me,” he finished with emphasis.

  Her heart pounded and she was feeling even sicker, but not entirely from the alcohol. There was a new chief? What exactly had happened to Huck? She waited for the second voicemail to begin.

  “Hi Darby,” a much sweeter voice intoned, one she immediately identified as Huck’s boss, the hospital’s Chief of Staff, Kelly King. “Dr. Huck has left the hospital rather abruptly, and I’d like to speak with you about what that means. We’ve been trying to reach you and I apologize—I know it’s very short notice—but please come to my office before you begin your shift. We’re prepared to make you an offer that I think you’ll like.”

  Darby was floored. The next message was from Anne. “Ding, Dong, the Witch is Dead!” she sang the song from The Wizard of Oz, with her version concluding in wicked laughter. The final message was from Michael. Her voicemail had played the most recent one first, so this last one had been left hours before, in the middle of the night Chicago time.

  “Congratulations. He’s gone.” Michael’s deep voice said, and she could hear the dull roar of airport sounds in the background. “It didn’t go down like you think, so keep quiet about what you know, okay? I’m getting on my plane now. I’ll see you when you pick me up.”

  She took pause long enough to consider that Michael had not only saved her job, but had orchestrated a miracle. Huck had been fired, just like that.

  “He pulled it off,” she whispered out loud. She’d walked in that day fully expecting her position on her project to be intact. She’d been around politics long enough to know that favors like this were called in all the time. But for him to be let go overnight meant that Michael either had an astounding level of influence, or some seriously scathing information on Huck. She couldn’t walk into a meeting with the Chief of Staff without knowing what she was walking into. She had to find out.

  She logged onto Facebook, but closed the page as soon as it loaded, realizing she didn’t want to chat with Michael on a company computer. Right then, he would be somewhere over the Pacific, but workaholic that he was, he might still be logged on. Grabbing her phone, she opened her Facebook app and private messaged him.

  What did you do?

  She didn’t have to wait long for a response.

  Me? I di
dn’t do anything.

  And a minute later:

  But my private investigator…now that’s another story.

  She forgot to breathe.

  Already?

  I told you I’d take care of it.

  Somehow, she still couldn’t believe it.

  I’ll tell you everything when I land.

  As she messaged Michael, more texts were coming in, and she couldn’t handle any of it. She turned off her phone.

  With effort, she pulled herself together, shrugged on a fresh lab coat, removed her sunglasses, put on some makeup, arranged her hair in a tasteful bun, and made her way to the executive floor.

  “We’ve had to let Dr. Huck and Dr. Skubic go,” Kelly immediately explained. “It was unexpected, but necessary. And we’re looking forward to continuing on with some new leadership,” she concluded diplomatically. “We considered appointing an interim chief, but your record is sterling and, as you know, we like to promote from within. You’re young for such a big role, but we feel that you’re more than capable. Your track record proves that you can deliver, clinically and otherwise, despite competing priorities. If you’d like the job, it’s yours. The Board has been briefed—they’re ready to install you immediately should you accept. And if you need more time to consider the offer, we understand.”

  But Darby didn’t need more time. Because being promoted to Chief was better than any of the pending job searches she had on the table. It was better than anything she had even aimed for. She would be crazy to turn it down.

  “I accept.”

  Kelly shook her hand. She didn’t remember much of the rest of the conversation other than mentioning that today was her last day in the office until Monday. They agreed to meet the following week to discuss the transition. Darby’s body tingled and her head spun as she closed the door behind her.

  OUTSIDE THE AIRPORT, DARBY LEANED against her old Range Rover, which was parked on a far curb set back from arrivals. She thought back to so many months before, to that first time that Michael had picked her up from the hospital. He’d been so striking as he leaned up against his Maserati. In all their months together, it had been he who had done the chauffeuring. She imagined that she made quite a different impression now, bundled up in her thick white parka with the fur-lined hood, sidled up against her old car.