He knelt down by Michelle, took her hand, and looked her in the eyes. It wasn’t the sadness that stunned him. It was the defeat. The look of ruin already. This had the potential to destroy her career.

“I love you,” he said, because it was all he could say right now that mattered. Anything else was an empty promise. This was the only true thing.

“I know,” she said, managing the sliver of a smile.

“And I’m sorry. I’m sorry this is happening. That they’re going after you. It’s all my fault,” he said, clasping her hand tighter.

She shook her head. “It’s not your fault.”

“I’m going to fix this. I’m going to fix this right now.”

“It’s okay,” she whispered, but he knew it wasn’t okay to her. It wouldn’t be okay to anyone. She just wasn’t the type of person who’d blame him, or anyone.

He left, but her brother followed him into the hallway, letting the door close behind him. “Don’t hurt my sister,” Davis said, his features stony.

“I won’t hurt your sister.”

Davis shook his head in frustration. “I mean it. If this is on you, you better make things right. As right as you possibly can.”

“I have a sister too. I would do the same, and say the same if I were in your position. Michelle means the world to me, and I’ll do everything for her.”

Davis gave a curt nod, then turned on his heels.

Jack took off for downtown, hailing a cab, and arriving at Bradshaw’s building fifteen minutes later. He buzzed 2C, then waited, muttering c’mon under his breath.

“Hello?” It was a man’s voice, and Jack was ready to strangle him, so he called upon some extra stores of his best friend—restraint.

“It’s Just Jack. I believe you wanted to talk about backing off. I’m on your steps.”

“I’ll be right down.”

Jack leaned against the railing of the stoop, watching through the glass panels of the brown front door. Soon, he saw a man descend the stairs, then reach the ground level. He looked exactly as Michelle described. Standard businessman. Gray slacks, button-down shirt, loosened tie. He had dark hair and dark glasses.

He opened the first set of doors, then the second, stepping out onto the stoop.

Jack dug his nails into his palms to refrain from pummeling him, from grabbing this bastard by the throat and shaking the goddamn life out of him. That would do no good.

Instead, he took a different approach. He extended his hand. “Clark Davidson, right?” he asked, and Nick smirked. Jack continued. “Market researcher, I understand?”

Nick smiled wickedly in response. “I see she’s been revealing patient-client confidentiality,” he said, tsk, tsking under his breath.

Jack fumed. “Don’t even go there,” he said in a hiss.

Nick pretended to bug out his eyes. “Why?” he asked in fake shock. “What are you going to do to me?” Nick’s eyes traveled to Jack’s clenched hands. “You gonna hit me, Soldier-Turned-Sex-Toy-Mogul? Why don’t you try? Why don’t you see how I spin that?”