Chapter 8
The waiter silently cleared the main course plates and set down two delicate porcelain bowls of caramel macchiato mousse. The rich, burnt-sugar scent filled the small space between them.
Hope picked up her small silver spoon but didn't take a bite. She stared at her distorted reflection in the bowl of the spoon. The wine and the intense emotional unburdening had left her feeling raw and exposed.
"Actually," Hope said, her voice dropping to a self-deprecating whisper, "Franklin was right. I probably never belonged on Wall Street anyway."
Corbin's triumphant smile vanished. He set his wine glass down with a soft clink. He leaned forward, his broad shoulders dominating her field of vision. "Explain that."
Hope let out a shaky breath, tracing the edge of the table with her thumb. "It's called Imposter Syndrome. I've had it since my first day at Columbia. I sat in classrooms with kids whose parents owned hedge funds, and I was terrified someone would realize I was just a poor kid from Queens who got lucky with a scholarship. I felt the same way at the firm. I worked eighty-hour weeks just so they wouldn't realize I was a fraud."
Her voice started to tremble. The shame she had carried for years bubbled to the surface. "I tried so hard to fit into their world, but I was just faking it. I don't belong here."
Corbin didn't offer a platitude. He didn't say don't be silly. He sat perfectly still, his eyes narrowing as he analyzed her words. The silence stretched, heavy and thick.
Hope felt a spike of panic. She had said too much. She had shown him how pathetic she really was. She opened her mouth to apologize, to make a joke and brush it off.
Before she could speak, Corbin's hand shot across the table. He grabbed her hand-the one holding the spoon-and enveloped it completely in his large palm.
His grip was tight, almost bruising, grounding her instantly.
"Look at me, Hope," he ordered.
It was the first time he had used her first name. The sound of it in his deep, gravelly voice sent a shockwave straight to her core. She jerked her head up, meeting his fierce, icy blue gaze.
"In medicine, we rely on evidence-based practice," Corbin said, his tone deadly serious. He wasn't comforting her; he was presenting a diagnosis. "Let's look at the evidence. Evidence one: You graduated from an Ivy League university on a full academic scholarship. Luck doesn't write a thesis."
His thumb began to stroke the back of her hand, a slow, rhythmic friction that sent heat rushing up her arm.
"Evidence two: You survived three years in a toxic, high-pressure financial firm. Evidence three: You stood in a boardroom, suffering from an acute kidney infection that would have put a grown man on the floor, and you delivered a financial report."
He leaned closer, his face inches from hers. His eyes were burning with an intensity that made her breath catch.
"You survived a mother who uses guilt as a weapon, and a boss who uses humiliation as management. And you did it while keeping your empathy intact," Corbin said, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "That is not luck. That is an extremely rare, highly resilient genetic makeup."
Hope's lips parted. Her chest tightened so painfully she thought her ribs might crack.
"You are not an imposter," Corbin stated, every word striking her like a hammer against glass. "You are a fighter. You are stronger than ninety percent of the entitled brats sitting in this restaurant tonight."
The dam broke.
A hot tear spilled over her lower lash line, dropping onto the white tablecloth. Then another. And another. Twenty-nine years of feeling inadequate, of being told she wasn't enough, washed away under the absolute certainty in his voice.
She didn't try to pull her hand away. Instead, she turned her palm up and laced her fingers tightly through his, clinging to him like a drowning woman to a lifeline.
Corbin let out a soft exhale. He reached into his pocket with his free hand, pulled out a pristine white handkerchief, and reached across the table. He gently dabbed the tears from her cheeks. His knuckles brushed against her hot skin.
"You can cry," he murmured, the harshness completely gone from his voice, replaced by a devastating tenderness. "But never, ever belittle yourself in front of me again. Understood?"
Hope nodded, a wet, breathless laugh escaping her lips. She took the handkerchief and pressed it to her eyes. The crushing weight of her self-doubt had been surgically removed.
The ambient noise of the restaurant faded away. The only thing that existed was the heat of his hand wrapped around hers.
After a long moment, Hope took a deep breath and gently untangled her fingers from his. Her face was flushed, but her eyes were brighter than they had been in years.
Corbin slowly pulled his hand back. He looked at his empty palm for a second, a muscle feathering in his jaw. The raw hunger in his eyes was no longer hidden.
He pushed the bowl of caramel mousse closer to her. "Eat the sugar," he said, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his face. "It triggers dopamine. You're going to need the energy."
Hope smiled back, her heart doing a frantic dance. She took a bite of the dessert. The intense sweetness exploded on her tongue. She looked at the man across from her, the man who had seen her naked, seen her broken, and had just pieced her back together.
A terrifying, thrilling realization hit her stomach like a lead weight: she was falling for him. Hard. And there was absolutely nothing she could do to stop it.
You may also like
