Unless Frank dropped dead, of course. Maybe then she’d reconsider.

Gwen looked him directly in the eye and counted to five before responding. “I’m leaving, Frank, contract or not.” Determined to deliver only short, decisive statements, she bit the inside of her cheek.

Frank turned to the two men who sat to his left, Mark Ingersol and Gary Ackerman. Gwen almost groaned aloud. Crap! When she entered the boardroom earlier, those men sat facing her. Frank had been seated at the head of the table, drumming his fingers impatiently on the stack of papers in front of him.

Gwen knew Frank would try to intimidate her. And bringing in Mark was intimidation. Everyone knew she had dated him. And they knew how it ended: badly.

Gwen tried to keep everything in perspective, which wasn’t too difficult. Because regardless of the fact that those men made her feel all of twelve years old and truly close to throwing up, what they failed to realize was…she was beyond intimidation.

Now she just had to get through this meeting, and hopefully, with her resolve intact.

Mark spoke, obviously on cue. “Let me explain something to you, sweetheart.”

Mark. What an ass. What a mistake. Gwen fixed him with an icy smile. “Think ya can?”

“I can explain a lot, Gwen. You have an obligation…the act of binding oneself by a social, legal, or moral tie.”

“I wasn’t aware you knew the meaning of anything moral,” she quipped.

“Weren’t you?” he corrected.

Crap again! Score one for Mark.

The man had a point. She’d shown him the door, and he walked. He’d also told anyone who would listen that she’d led him on. The ice queen, he’d said. The term hurt more than she’d admit. She hadn’t meant to lead him on, but she couldn’t pretend she felt enough to sleep with him. And she wouldn’t just give her virginity to anyone. Not when she’d already waited that long.

Gwen turned to Frank. She couldn’t look at Mark anymore. Not for the obvious reasons, but because she was so close to vomiting, which wouldn’t be so horrible. But it would be one of those spontaneous and uncontrollable moments. A moment in which she knew she’d ruin her shoes. She’d waited two weeks for those shoes. Two. She’d never be able to find another pair in her size this late in the season. And she’d be out four hundred dollars. Vomiting was definitely out of the question.

“I’ve only asked for a leave of absence, Frank,” Gwen justified. “It’s not unheard of.” And she had only asked for a leave of absence, but Gwen had a feeling she wasn’t coming back.

“Why?” Frank pleaded. “You’re finally able to stand on your own. You’ve accomplished more than any resident I’ve known, Gwen. Hell, you’ve accomplished more than anyone I’ve known.”

Gwen didn’t have a response. Not one they’d understand. How could she explain something she didn’t understand herself?

How could she walk away from everything she’d worked her entire life to achieve?