Chapter 113 Do the right thing
We're standing on a small, arched bridge, the wood a vibrant, lacquered red that stands out against the deep mossy greens of the garden. Below us, the pond is a dark mirror, broken only by the glide of koi fish. They move slowly, flashes of orange and white and gold gliding through dark water like living brushstrokes. There’s no urgency to them, just presence. Existing without question.
I’m busy watching a particularly large gold one, but I don’t need to turn my head to know where Michael’s eyes are. I can feel the weight of his attention on the side of my face.
"You’re doing it again," I say, my voice low enough that it doesn't disturb the peace of the water.
He doesn’t respond immediately. I can hear the soft rustle of his jacket as he shifts his weight.
"You’re making me feel like a specimen under a microscope," I add, my eyes still on the fish. "I don't approve."
He chuckles slightly, a warm sound that vibrates in the cool air. From the corner of my eye, I finally see him break his gaze and look down at the water. My parents are a few dozen yards away, wandering through a grove of stone lanterns. We’re supposed to meet them for the picnic in twenty minutes.
There’s something almost comforting about that. The quiet separation.
"If I don't look at you, how do I know you haven't floated away?" Michael asks, leaning his forearms against the railing.
I take in a deep breath, the air here tasting of pine and damp stone, so fresh it almost feels sharp in my lungs. I let it out slowly, leaning my hip against the wood to take the pressure off my joints.
"I’m wearing about three layers of wool, in addition to being tethered by the density of your concern," I tell him. "I’m not floating anywhere."
I offer him a smile, though I can feel the faint undertones of sadness pulling at the corners of it. It’s the kind of smile that comes with the realization that this...this bridge, this man, this air...is a high-definition moment in a world that feels out of focus.
"I’d actually been thinking about getting an aquarium this year," I say, nodding toward a koi that looks like it’s wearing a crown of white scales. "Something small, low maintenance."
Michael turns to me fully then, his blue eyes darting over my face. It's not just a glance. I can almost map the path of it, the way his eyes move over my face like they’re searching for something specific
"Not anymore?"
I hold his gaze, the smile staying intact through sheer willpower, before I chuckle slightly and look back down at the pond. "The logistics are a bit complicated now...We’ll see."
He inches a little closer, his shoulder pressing into mine. He hands me the rest of the water bottle, already opened. I take it and drink the last of it, the cold liquid helping to ground the sudden flutter of nerves in my chest. I lean over the bridge again, and he wordlessly takes the empty bottle from my hand.
I give him a long look, one I hope conveys the fact that I am perfectly capable of holding an empty plastic bottle without collapsing into a heap of exhaustion. He catches the look and doesn't flinch. "You’re doing it again," he says softly. "Overanalyzing the help."
He turns to face away from the bridge, looking out toward the winding paths we’ve already walked. There’s something in his eyes lately...a shadow, or maybe just a specific kind of exhaustion that I haven't quite been able to categorize.
I open my mouth to ask if he’s okay, but he speaks first.
"Vivienne Hansen is planning on suing Knight and Rowe," he says, his voice flat.
I blink. The words don’t land immediately. They just hover there for a second, out of place against the stillness of the garden.
I shift my weight, the wooden railing of the bridge pressing into my palms. "Suing for what, exactly?"
He sighs, a heavy sound that seems to vibrate in the cool, damp air. "Inducement under false pretenses."
I narrow my eyes, my frown deepening as I watch a ripple move across the pond. "Apparently, my father and his wife led her to believe she’d be signed directly under me," he says, his voice devoid of the usual warmth. "They didn't inform her of my resignation. In fact, they did the opposite, they lied and told her I was in Canada, overseeing a temporary project. She’d made it clear she wasn’t interested in any other editor at the firm. So they sold her a ghost."
"That sounds serious."
"It is," Michael says, finally looking away from the water. "She's a household name. The second the press catches even a hint of this, the firm will face a backlash they can’t spin their way out of."
I study him, there’s no panic in his voice. But there’s something else. Something tighter.
"How did you find out? Did your father call?"
"No," he says, a grim shadow crossing his face. "Vivienne reached out to me on my personal number this morning."
I conclude that that was the call he took before the 'stagnant pond' experiment.
"She told me they tried to handle the matter out of court with a massive payout, but she felt personally wronged. She’s a purist, Ryan. She hates being lied to."
He pauses, his fingers tightening around the empty water bottle until the plastic crinkles. "She just wanted me to know that if this goes to trial, I’ll likely be called in as a witness. She wants me to testify about the timeline of my resignation and exactly what my father knew when he signed that contract."
I stay silent for a moment, letting the implications settle. That he's probably about to be dragged into a public execution of his family’s legacy.
“How do you feel about that?” I ask quietly.
He shrugs, a weary movement that suggests he’s trying to shake off the weight of an old, heavy coat. "I feel for her, truly. But I was so damn relieved to cut ties with that place entirely."
He lets out a short, dry breath. "Between my father and Susan, I’ve had more calls and emails from them in the last forty-eight hours than I did in a month of actually working there. It feels like an aggressive waste of my time. And I’ve become remarkably protective of my hours lately."
He looks at me as he says it, his expression softening as the frustration drains away, replaced by that singular, focused devotion. He reaches out, his fingers light, and gently pushes a few stray strands of my thinning hair back from my forehead.
I turn around, leaning my back against the red railing, watching the Japanese maples sway with the wind. The air here is so still it feels like we’re inside a bell jar.
"Do you want my insight?" I ask, my voice barely a murmur.
Michael chuckles, the sound warm and low. "I wouldn't have subjected you to the legal drama if I didn't."
I blink, staring out at the expanse of the garden. "Do the right thing. It’s that simple."
We spend so much time over-complicating morality with footnotes, but the core of the narrative is usually pretty clear.
I finally turn fully, shifting so I’m standing in front of him now. Close enough to hold his gaze without effort. I look up, offering a small, steady smile.
“A lot of people trust you, Michael,” I add, softer but no less certain. “Not just in what you do, but in how you do it. You should probably prove they’re right to do so.”
I pause, my smile widening into something a bit more mischievous to cut through the gravity of the moment. "Besides, as a dedicated Vivienne Hansen fan, If I saw a 'Newly Published book written by Michael Foster' on a shelf and knew you’d stayed comfortably silent while she was being professionally misled by your name....I’d likely skip right over it."
His eyes lock onto mine, the blue of them deepening. For a second, there's only the garden, the cool air, and the fact that I'm challenging him to stay the tragically honest man I fell in love with.
"I suppose I can’t afford to lose my primary reader," he says, his hand sliding down to cup the back of my neck.
"Keep the story honest," I say, leaning into his touch. "Reputation isn’t just built on what you create, it’s built on what you refuse to ignore.”
He exhales through his nose, something quiet shifting in his expression, like resistance giving way, just slightly. Then he pulls me in without asking. I go easily. His arms wrap around me, pulling me closer until there’s no space left to negotiate. It’s warm. Familiar in a way that settles something in my chest. Then he leans down, his lips brush against my temple.
Soft, lingering just a second longer than necessary.
“Seriously,” he murmurs, voice teasing but sincere, “I love your peripatetic wisdom. Every single wandering thought of yours, I could follow them anywhere.”
I can’t help it...I laugh, shaking my head against him. The sound echoes off the red wood of the bridge. "You really leaned into it, didn't you?"
"Hey," he scolds, tightening his hold slightly, defensive. "You promised no eye-rolling."