I shouldn't have slept with his Claudia, but I did. I don't regret it even now, seeing her face in the clouds, feeling her touch in the gusts.
Of course he'd find out. Of course he'd want revenge. You don't get to be president of Schiller Adhesives without cunning and drive and a fair absence of sympathy.
So here I am, waiting for the end: seventeen stories into the sky, pushed onto a ledge, backed into the cold wind-soaked brick.
He said the Schiller Adhesive they painted down my coat's spine will never loosen. It will last until I choose to slip out of the sleeves. I scoffed at him, tied the belt tighter, and told him I'd stand there until I starved.
He pointed out that he'd win either way.
So far, he seems to be right.