Unforgettable is the ache that pulses right above my eyebrow. My weakened, heavy arm reaches up to my face, my fingertips brushing over the thick, small band aid that covers the sensitive, raw flesh. I swallow, feeling my throat dry. Squeezing my eyes shut, I regained some of my cognition, wondering where I was. The sound of nothing was deafening, a thick tension sensed surroundings the moment I remembered a few too many details at once. Grimacing with discomfort, tormented by the pain in my arm and my face, I opened my eyes and immediately winced at the piercing brightness of the light. Reluctant to keep them open, I force my pupils to adjust to the light, bearing with the stinging in my watering eyes. I stare up at the ceiling of an unfamiliar room.
Eyebrows lowering further, I extend my arms on either side of me, my palms and fingertips roaming and feeling the cushioned surface beneath me. I realize I'm on a sofa, a decorative pillow beneath my head. The curiosity and slight apprehension I feel compels me to sit up, and as I'm attempting to, a figure that I hadn't sensed before approaches me, followed by Harry's voice. "Hey," he mutters quietly, causing me to turn my head as I'm slowly sitting up. He was sitting across from the sofa, on a chair, most likely watching over me. Upon locking eyes with him, I'm immediately reminded of the events that took place right before my sight went black.
Reaching up to touch the aching area on my face, I squint over at him. He's crouched down beside me now, our faces turned to one another. I stared at him with little on my mind but one thing; what is going on? There was very little I knew about Harry, and it was becoming apparent. He gazes at me curiously, eyebrows lowering. My voice raw with sleep, I slowly murmur, "What happened?"
"Ernest," he answers honestly, his tone dry and his expression as stern as his voice. He examines my face, his eyes trailing to the injury near my eyebrow. I wondered what I looked like, and panicked at the uncertainty of severity concerning my injuries. Knowingly, he raises his chin and shakes his head, reassuring me, "It's not bad. Just a small cut above your eyebrow. The swelling has gone down considerably."
Bearing in his words, I reach to touch my fingertips against the gash above my eyebrow, brushing the thick band aid that held the linear cut together. My eyes wander upwards as I'm blindly feeling the skin, then looking at Harry once more. "He threatened to kill me," I announced to him, though he must've already known what this very bold gesture meant coming from Ernest. Big eyes analyzing him, I don't hesitate to ask, "What is really going on with this case?"
"That doesn't matter. I just know this isn't going to happen again," is all he says.
My eyes search his face for a moment. I watch the way his eyes don't waver, at all. I'm bewildered and silenced with astonishment by the very apparent smoothness of his demeanor. He was not one bit concerned, or anxious. I was curious as to the very calm, undisturbed features of his face, his movements. I'm troubled by his inability to even artificialize concern, or a normal amount of adrenal rush, anxiety. But, I think it didn't fit this image of him, or at least the one I had in my mind.
"What did you mean when you said take care of Ernest'?" I whispered cautiously, my eyes going back and forth between his somber, pale ones.
He inhales deeply and his eyes lower, tongue moving in his closed mouth, poking at the inside of his cheek. His nostrils flare lightly as he exhales past his nose, and he appears to be thinking while he looks at me, debating himself. That itself is a cause for concern, and I begin to frown as the seconds pass. "Athena..." he begins.
I part my lips to interrupt him, already convinced of the answer even though he hasn't provided one yet. I didn't need it. However, he comes closer and stops me, interjecting, "I didn't mean what you think. But...I have to show him I'm just as serious as he is. He went as far as coming after you, he shouldn't --"
"He shouldn't get to do that, yes. But I think informing the authorities makes the most sense? If Ernest is ensuring his client's success in this case, and you're representing that client, what exactly did you do to make him so angry?" I inquire assertively, standing up straighter, my legs swinging over the sofa, feet touching the floor. Harry moves away, eyes widening slightly at my forwardness. He wasn't expecting that. Neither was I. But my breath had been taken away from me, and all the fear that my brain could inflict on me was used up in that car with Ernest. Now, I was simply confused.
Shaking his head, he sternly argues, "That's not for you to worry about. Axel is going to be with you at all times. This isn't going to happen again."
Pursing my lips, I narrowed my eyes at him and insisted, "No. That's not necessary. How well did that work before?"
"Athena."
"Don't," I remark haughtily, standing to my feet. I'm standing still for a moment, blinking. The force with which I was hit was making its lasting effect. I was obviously angry, but I was feeling so much at once, I didn't truly know how to react to the reality of everything that happened. The first step was accomplished; I was already afraid, scared, and horrified by the memory of Ernest's promise. I didn't want to see the second.
Keen on leaving, I looked around for my bag. I notice that this isn't a room I've been in before. I see a bed that compliments the red shade of the sofa. This appeared to be a guest room in what I believed was his building. Behind me, as I'm reaching for my bag that was set on the large bed, I hear Harry snap, "Athena, you should listen to me for a second."
He stands straight up, and I turn around, instantly retorting, "I should, hm? I listen to you all the time, Harry. Ernest just threatened to kill me. And the first thing you wanted to do was to take care of him. What kind of business are you and Yung involved with? If that's what we can talk about, maybe I will listen." I was not turning back on my instincts this time. Ever since he upgraded his security, with weapons, I was certain this wasn't just a simple, high profile case. This was something extremely important to a very powerful man, and that was concerning me. I was caught up in it by sleeping with one of the lawyers on the case.
Harry watches me place my bag on my shoulder, and I stare at him with wide eyes, beckoning him to answer me, but he remains quiet. I'm defeated and discouraged by his silence, understanding that his refusal to speak and even refute my claims only proves that I was correct. And he told me...he promised me that he was going to be honest with me. This was him keeping his promise. If he couldn't lie to me, then he would say nothing at all. I take one more glance at his face, wondering if he would attempt to stop me from walking away, that he would give me something. But he didn't. And I took that answer.
. . .
My mother was in the kitchen when I arrived at my house. Her hair was put together messily into an unrecognizable updo, and she held a large wine glass up to her lips, the deep crimson liquid at the bottom of the glass leaning towards her mouth. I peer into the kitchen carefully, watching her grab the wine bottle and lazily pour another glass full. I raised an eyebrow at her blatant behavior, only because she always outwardly expressed her dislike for any kind of alcohol. And to see her drinking it was pretty indicative to me about where her mindset was. I was unsure of whether I should approach her, but assumed that I could lie about my injuries and not be questioned repeatedly because my lie would be enough for her right now. She was clearly fed up with everything else.
And I didn't think too hard about what kind of lie I would come up with. Even as she saw me, she didn't really focus her sight onto the injured portion of my face. I'm completely prepared to defend any accusations she may have in mind, but surprisingly, she says nothing. Another sip of her wine, and she leans back into her chair and stares off at the wall across from us. Attentively, I take a seat next to her and ponder about what I wanted to say. If I even wanted to say anything. But my body moves on its own, automatically and involuntarily without my permission. I take one of the empty glasses by the bottle and pour myself some of the crimson-pigmented drink.
I'm surprised by her continued silence, but this was more evidence that she was not willing to have a conversation with me, or has lost the motivation to initiate one with me, as I've refused every single one. She wasn't even excited to see me breaking a rule in front of her, and she was not even fazed when I took a sip from my glass. Instead, she sighs and downs the rest of her glass. I finally whispered, "You have to stop controlling everything. I'm not leaving. But...I need you to acknowledge what you did was wrong." I'm unable to look at her, and I'm prepared to avoid her eyes as I stare ahead at the wall, anticipating that she would instantly ridicule me and scowl at my behavior.
Instead, she proceeds to pour herself another glass. She takes a large sip, her cheeks expanding slightly as the liquid moves inside her mouth. Pursing her lips then, she blinks slowly and exhales loudly. There's a moment of complete silence before she decides to respond to me. "I don't know why I thought I'd lose you, too. I just..." she shrugs her shoulder, bitterly confessing, "I push people away. That's what I did with your dad. Everyone thinks...how did a man that friendly and good-natured marry such a raging bitch like me?"
Unable to keep myself from exposing my raw reactions, I snicker and bite my lip instantly, attempting to remove the faint amusement on my face when she said such a self-deprecating thing. However, she huffs out a quick laugh and then adds, "I am a raging bitch. But there's nothing I wouldn't do for you, Athena. I went too far," she nods, "I did. And honestly, if I could talk to my past self right now, I would tell her not to do it. I'm to blame, fully. And you can hate me, you can --"
"There's nothing wrong with being a raging bitch," I interrupt quietly.
She turns to look at me, but I don't turn to her. Frowning, she asks, "What happened to your eyebrow?"
I sigh, readily saying, "I tried to...clean them up with a razor. It was stupid."
"Yeah...you should get them threaded instead."
. . .
My fingers that wrapped around the black pen were starting to hurt, my hand cramping up as I furiously scribbled every last keyword and main idea Akira was spilling out to me in her office. She takes a break when her phone rings, and she reaches for it, signaling to me that she needed a minute. I take this as my que to leave, and I stand to my feet, shoving the pen between my head and my ear, held there by the cartilage of the flesh. Wiping my clammy hands onto my black pants, I stared at her for a moment, and she turned quickly, moving the phone from her ear, to finally say to me, "David Friedman. He is the man you need to meet with. Ask him those questions. Ask him all the technical stuff, you know. Be ruthless with the truth, Athena. If not...if you can't prove yourself to me by the end of the day, you're fired."
I swallow down the nervous lump in my throat. I'm petrified of Akira, but I wasn't going to let that show. I'm due to grow some kind of courage, and while I've surely been a little more brave with the realities in my life, I wasn't where I wanted to be. Ruthless with the truth...at least I had a reason now. Showing her I understand, I nodded my head and quickly made my way out the door of her large, spacious office. Akira had a very prominent aesthetic for black and white, which was most of her building. Desks were scattered and occupied by messy, disorganized investigative journalists. Akira was pretty good at this, and I wondered why someone so committed to the truth had mentored someone that was...the complete opposite.
In my usual gettup, a white button up and black pants, my hair a clear mess and my makeup-less face, I grab my bag from my desk among the sea of many others. I tear off the paper with the address on it, and fold it up into my pocket. I had all day to gather information about this man. Still unsure of what all of this was going to bring, I was comforted by the idea that maybe I could do this. If I could prove myself to Akira, I could prove myself to me.
The walk was only about seven minutes. I followed the map on my phone, and gathered enough confidence to go inside after a good five minutes of simply standing outside of it. It was a large building, not made of cemented brick like many around it, but of metal pillars and glass. It was completely modernized down to every detail, and it was of a minimalist aesthetic. I noted all of this as I walked inside, and saw the very spacious room that was occupied by a simple lounge, waiting area, and then a round secretary's desk over in the middle.
Biting the inside of my cheek, I prepare myself to converse with the woman at the desk. She reminded of the woman at the front desk in Harry's firm. The same bored, uninterested, look across their faces. This one was a thin, jet-black haired girl of maybe European origin. As a French flag was seen on her desk, I could make these noticeable conclusions. It was a moment before I could really muster the courage to ask her what I've been thinking. "Hello, I'm looking for David Friedman."
She was unamused by my question. It also seems like it went through one ear and out the other. But, reluctantly, she tears her eyes away from her computer and looks at me. Not very interested in giving me an answer, she instead replies, "What about David Friedman?"
"I'm looking for David Friedman. I have to talk to him," I answered her steadily.
Raising an eyebrow, she mutters, "Yeah. A lot of people do."
Growing agitated with her attitude, I inhale deeply and more firmly assert, "It's imperative that I speak with him. So, do me a favor, and please inform him." My words were not enough to convince her to do her job, and I had no idea what was making her so insistent on not listening to me. But, I thought to myself, if I had to be ruthless, then I had to use the brain that I was gifted with. Unfortunately, it had been turned off and suppressed by my shyness and the strength of my insecurities. Now was the perfect time to put my newfound courage into effect. So without much thinking and a lot of thinking at once, I plotted in my head and finally came out and said, "Or...a story about his secret affairs will be sold to the Washington Post."
That did it. To my surprise, the dark-haired lady decides to pick up her phone, and with little hesitation, she speaks into the phone and says, "Mr. Friedman...there is a woman here asking to speak with you. I believe it's very important."
Something is said on the other line but I'm not sure what exactly is the response she gets. However, she instructs me to head down the hallway to his office regardless. I refrained from smiling too widely knowing that had somehow actually worked. My amusement and my surprise was short-lived when I got to the door that belonged to his office. I had to remind myself that I didn't know what kind of man this was. That being said, apparently this is a recent recurring pattern in my life. It was important for me to remember that there was a certain behavior that I had to exude to be able to get away with what I was doing, and to be truthful with myself, I didn't know what that was. It had only been a week since I met Akira, and since then it was repeated to me that I had to be ruthless, that the energy I emit had to be one of confidence. And this was a test. This was the moment that I could turn things around. I could commit to this, and see where it led me.
A knock on the door once. And that's what it takes. A voice from the other side of the door tells me to come in and I listen. it takes me a few seconds to actually turn the doorknob. inside I am shaking and I am unsure of whether I even want to do this again. But, a part of me knew that this was not really entirely about being ruthless about the truth; this was about me being able to do something and do it effectively without backtracking on my promises to be strong. And if I had to prove to myself and this manner that I could do that, then maybe this would be worth it. So I turned the doorknob, and I pushed the door open, determined to get some kind of information that would please Akira.
My first sight of David Friedman was of him sitting at his desk facing me, his eyes going from the files in front of him to my steadied face. The look of his eyes was not intimidating. His irises were a blue that had some kind of innocence to it, but I should know appearances can be deceiving. But for some reason, this man fails to emit an energy similar to that of someone who knew they had power to harm those below them. This was a man who was the kind that, at the sight of me, offered a charming, yet artificial smile. I didn't let that taint the impression that I would get from him, or that I could possibly get from him during this interview. Instead, I moved forward into his office, shutting the door behind me, knowing that whatever he fed me today, I had to be a little smarter by the time I delivered it to Akira or I should know exactly what this man meant to say beyond the lies that he might tell me today. And I was used to being this cynical, but after a couple of events in my life, this was a necessary precaution.
"Hello, Miss. What brings a young woman like yourself into my office?" The man finally speaks, and he sounds just how he looks. Attractive, charming, and alluring. His graying hair and the aging details in his face didn't manage to harm the appearance. He exuded a youthful, boyish pride through his wide grin. It made me so suspicious, that as I took my seat, I couldn't tear my eyes away in case the sincerity of his fake smile started to leak through his innocent blue eyes.
"Hello. I am working for journalist Akira Haruno. I've been assigned your story about...the new pharmaceuticals your company --"
"I will stop you right there," he apologetically interrupts, not very sincerely, but he swiftly waves his hand at me, raising his index finger to pause me. "I will not be answering questions about the chemical makeup of this product, or whether it has been approved or not. This is a private --"
I interrupted him this time. "That is completely fine," I assure him, nodding my head. My brain is working overtime, sparking up the ideas. The words just fall to the tip of my tongue, and the next second I am speaking them. "I just wanted to know if you were aware of the possible dangers regarding this product," I lied, testing the waters. My heart is in my throat, but I am resisting the urge to break. The hand that isn't holding the pen and notebook down onto my lap wipes against my pants, wiping away the perspiration that began to accumulate there as the anxiety congested in my chest.
The expression that falls onto Friedman's face says it all. I hit something I hadn't been aware of that is probably information that has been quieted down for a very imperative reason. "How do you know that?" He asks curiously, his eyebrows lowering as his face contorts into one of serious confusion.
"I can't answer that. However, I can clear up public confusion about said dangers...if you were to explain a few things," I'm subtle. But not subtle enough for him not to notice.
Laughing bitterly, Friedman simply nods his head knowingly. "I should've known the second you said Akira Haruno that this would be the method you bastards would use," he nearly seethes, surely displeased by our conversation. The craziest part was that I had no idea what I was saying. I didn't know anything about any 'dangers' or this 'product', but the idea that I knew, in his eyes, gave me all the power in this conversation. I had to be ruthless. Ruthless, I convinced myself. Lowering his head, his eyes narrowing as he leans forward into his desk, his index finger pressed against the surface of the glass desk, he furiously snaps, "Okay, what do you want to know?"
Clearing my throat, I flip the page of my notebook and read the first line. I look up at him again, now convinced that the blue of his irises that once appeared innocent was fusing with some deep hatred for me at the discovery of my method. "First...what involvement with the government does Friedman Pharmaceuticals have? Is the FDA --"
"Okay," he smacks his hand against the desk, and I refrain from jumping. "I said I wouldn't answer questions like these. This is clearly an FDA approval question, but if you need to know, nothing has been done about this product in regards to how quickly it's moving towards approval."
"Could there be a reason?" I ask calmly, my eyes lowering as my anxiety decreases. I take a deep breath and settle into my seat, my pen ready to jot down a summary of his answer.
"You know the answer to that," he very dimly assumes. "The FDA is quite unhappy with the problems we've seen. But...we all came to an agreement that the severity was overly dramatized...and we are seeing improvements. Everything is going well. There's no need to blow this out of proportion."
"So, you do admit that there have been some problems. By 'all', do you mean that the officials of the administration held a meeting to discuss these dangers?" I inquire, gazing down at my pen as it glides across the paper.
Friedman then flatly replies, "That's all I will be answering today. Please leave, before I call security."
I'm stunned by his outward desperation to get me away from him, to stop answering my questions that he felt he had to forcibly answer. I hadn't done a single thing but lie, give him the illusion that I was aware of some secret that I shouldn't know. This was a power move, and it left him nervous. And not through his mannerisms, but simply from his wavering demands. This was a man that gave me answers, and he wasn't very bright. If he had been smarter, he would've asked me to elaborate on the dangers instead of believing I already knew of them.
Without saying another word, I stand up and off the chair across from him. He watches me carefully and I can see the obvious anger in his eyes. I was nervous and uncomfortable under the intensity of his gaze, but I moved along, appearing unfazed. "Thank you," I gratefully say to him as I'm leaving, to which he says nothing. Only a fake smile plastered across his face, and he waits until I'm going to properly, openly react to the very brief, and intense interview we just had.
Knowingly, I stand outside the office door. I look down both ends of the corridor and see nobody. My eyes gaze up at the ceiling briefly, my back still to the door as I search for any surveillance equipment. Preparing myself, I inhaled shakily and leaned against the door, my ear pressed against it. I hear nothing for a long moment, only the sound of my heart beating in my ears.
"Yeah...hello. Listen, I am not going to be fooled into being served to the prosecutor on a silver fucking platter. I thought Ernest fucking handled the situation and took care of the son of a bitch."
I lean off the door the exact moment I gasp. My feet take me down the corridor and past the woman at her desk very quickly. I didn't need to hear more. This was something that would change my entire perspective on what I would do next. Because not only was that the boldest thing I've done, but I think I might've gotten more answers for Akira than even she expected.
I just interviewed Harry's client.
. . .
That same night I found myself standing in Harry's kitchen, elbows leaned into the surface of the island. I basically let myself in since every man on his security team knew exactly who I was either by the ability to hear or see. I'm picking at a grape vine that I had placed inside of a bowl when the door to his penthouse opens. Lazily, I place the grape at my lips, eyes wandering the spacious kitchen. The second he walks in, he doesn't even pause or give a hint of surprise to my presence. He probably already knew. Part of me was beginning to be convinced that he didn't keep track of me because he wanted to ensure my safety, but because he was so paranoid.
He walks up to me, sighing to himself. Maybe he believed that I was forgiving him, or that I had gotten over our previous discussion because he leaned downward to place a kiss on my lips. I allow the gesture, not bothering to return it, however. He takes note of that and simply gazes over my face, greeting, "Nice to see you."
I don't say anything. He turns his back to me and walks towards the large, silver fridge. He takes out a pitcher with a few sliced lemons in it. Grabbing two glass cups from the cupboard, he beckons his busied hand to me and asks, "Want some?"
"Friedman Pharmaceuticals."
He's gazing at his hands, placing down the cups and readying to grab the pitcher when I abruptly say it. Everything he was doing, he stopped. He doesn't do a single thing, and I'm completely unsure of what I wanted to say next, because observing the way his neutral face simply looks up at me, I knew I wasn't going to get anything out of him. And it was frustrating. He was incredibly good at his poker face, and I was so bewildered by it, that I just itched to ask him where he learned to do that.
"What?.." He stares at me, unmoving.
More firmly, I repeat, "Friedman Pharmaceuticals. Does that...ring a bell to you?"
Immediately, he removes his hands from the pitcher and inquires, "What are you doing with Akira Haruno, exactly?"
"Researching."
"Stop that, then."
Swallowing harshly, I claim, "This is about your case, isn't it?"
Unfazed, he quickly replies, "Only partly."
I lean away from the kitchen island, huffing out, "Partly?" Staring at him with a gradual grimace curving into my face, I retorted, "David Friedman is your client. He's the one you're representing."
I'm still as he sighs heavily and takes a few strides towards me. Backing up, I eventually come across the counter behind me. Lowering his head, his eyes narrowing, Harry warningly mutters, "Athena...you need to drop this. You need to tell Akira there's nothing there."
Shaking my head, I insisted, "She won't believe me. She already is certain there's something there. I'm just surprised she doesn't know that this lead she's following will lead back to you. I don't think she'll hesitate to slaughter this case for you...even if she was your mentor."
He's not surprised by the information I have. Instead, he seethingly questions, "So you're saying that you don't mind if this digging of yours sabotages my case? That you'll do it...because Akira is feeding you compliment after compliment."
Silenced by his nerve, I simply stared at him, mouth parted. He begins to shake his head, his frown becoming faint as he visibly begins to feel regretful. Ready to apologize to me, his eyes apologetic, he parts his mouth to speak, but I don't let him. Instead, I quietly remarked, "I didn't say that."
"Athena," he whispers.
"But maybe I should've thought of that. Your work is so important to you, why shouldn't mine be?" I bravely testify.
Flatly, he states, "Because Athena, this is not only about the case itself anymore. I know you're not stupid. Look what Ernest did to you. Do you think if he finds out about this, that he'll hesitate. I tried to get you away from this case, not further into it. I thought you wanted the same."
He had a point. I did want the same. I do want it. But, as I don't say anything, he adds, "Athena, I will take down Akira's career within seconds. Your new job will be gone. And there won't be a story."
Utterly shocked, I stare at him, my face blank of all expression. He was ruthless. It's quite hard to imagine how I didn't see it the entire time. Maybe the sex was so good that I allowed myself to mindlessly be in his presence, to feel him, speak to him. Maybe I was not entirely sure who this man was. Or what he was doing when we weren't fucking. I only knew him on a physically intimate level, and he made sure of that. He made sure that I was blind to everything else, and I didn't know how I let it happen. I was naive enough. Stupid enough. Completely drowning, sinking into him. I just took a breath of air.
I push at his chest suddenly to get him away from me, giving myself space to walk away. I'm keen on leaving, and I hear him call out behind me, "Athena. I have no other choice but to see this case go through. I'm in too deep."
He seemed apologetic for his words, but he wasn't going to admit it. I turned around once last time, my hand on the doorknob as he approached. Looking into his eyes, I firmly whispered back, "So was I, apparently." As I'm shutting the door, he sighs heavily, running his hands through his hair in obvious distress.
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