Максим Князев – RUIN ME SLOWLY (страница 2)
He had let me burn down his office. He had handed me the evidence to destroy him. He had told me the darkest secret of my own life — the secret I had been running from for twenty years.
Julian Cross wasn't afraid of me.
He was fascinated by me.
And that made him infinitely more dangerous than I ever imagined.
PART ONE: THE INTERVIEW
CHAPTER ONE
Present Day
Seven Hours Before the Interview
The first time Julian Cross fired someone, I was in the bathroom throwing up — not because I felt sorry for the victim, but because his voice on the intercom made me wet.
I'm not proud of that.
But I'm not a liar, either. At least not to myself.
I had been at Harrington House for exactly forty-seven minutes. Just long enough to fill out the employment forms, meet the HR director (a woman who looked like she'd never smiled in her life), and make a cup of instant coffee that tasted like regret.
And then the intercom crackled.
"Evelyn Pearce, please report to the seventh floor. Dr. Cross is ready to see you."
I froze.
I had been preparing for this moment for two years. I had memorized every detail about Julian Cross — his qualifications, his publications, his divorce, his reputation for destroying careers. I had practiced my fake smile in the mirror. I had rehearsed the lies I'd tell about my background, my education, my reasons for wanting this job.
But nothing — nothing — had prepared me for the sound of his voice.
Deep. Slow. Articulate. Each word wrapped in velvet, but with a sharp edge underneath, like a scalpel hidden in silk.
And my body reacted before my brain could stop it.
Heat. Low in my stomach. Spreading like wildfire through my veins.
I had to grip the edge of the sink to steady myself. My reflection in the bathroom mirror looked horrified.
"Get it together," I whispered to myself. "He killed your brother. He's a monster. You hate him."
But my body didn't hate him.
My body was a traitor.
I splashed cold water on my face and walked to the elevator.
The seventh floor was different from the rest of the building. Quieter. Darker. The carpets were thicker, the lighting softer. Everything was designed to feel expensive and intimate, like the lobby of a boutique hotel instead of a psychiatric clinic.
I walked down a long corridor lined with abstract art. The paintings were disturbing — blurred faces, contorted bodies, colors that bled into each other like bruises. I recognized the artist, of course. Julian Cross was famous for his obsession with Francis Bacon. The twisted, screaming figures in those paintings were his favorites.
The office door was open.
I stood outside for a moment, watching him.
He was at his desk, writing something in a leather-bound notebook. His pen moved slowly, deliberately. His posture was perfect — back straight, shoulders back, the confident ease of a man who had never doubted his place in the world.
The fire had been three months ago. The office was completely restored now, but the memory of the flames haunted me. I could still smell the smoke when I closed my eyes.
"Come in, Evelyn," he said, without looking up. "Close the door behind you."
I stepped inside.
The office was exactly as it had been before the fire. The same mahogany desk. The same Persian rug. The same floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Thames. The same bookshelf, rebuilt and refilled with expensive leather-bound volumes.
The only difference was the woman.
She was sitting in the chair across from Julian's desk, her back to me. She had perfect blonde hair and a perfectly tailored suit. She was crying. Silent tears were streaming down her cheeks, and she was dabbing them with a silk handkerchief.
Julian finally looked up from his notebook. His eyes met mine.
"Ah, there you are," he said. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd changed your mind."
"I'm sorry I'm late," I said, my voice sounding steadier than I felt. "The HR paperwork took longer than I expected."
"Mm." He made a small mark in his notebook. "Three minutes and seventeen seconds. That's how long you were late. I'll subtract it from your lunch break."
The crying woman turned to look at me. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face blotchy. She looked like she'd been crying for hours.
"Dr. Cross," she said, her voice cracking. "I told you everything. Everything. You can't — you can't just use that against me."
Julian sighed. It was a patient, almost paternal sigh, the kind of sigh you'd give a child who was throwing a tantrum.
"Margaret," he said. "I'm not using anything against you. I'm simply asking you to look at the facts. You told me yourself — that your husband doesn't love you. That you hate your body. That you fantasize about hurting your children."
"I was being honest!"
"And honesty is a gift," Julian said. "But it's also a weapon. You gave me permission to use this information to help you. So I'm helping you. The right thing to do is leave your husband. File for divorce. Take the children. Your life will be better."
"But —"
"No buts." His voice was gentle but final. "Margaret, you came to me because you wanted to be free. This is what freedom looks like. It's ugly. It's painful. But it's the truth."
Margaret stared at him for a long moment. Then she nodded, wiped her eyes, and stood up.
"Thank you, Dr. Cross," she whispered.
"Don't thank me yet," he said. "Thank me in five years, when you're happy."
She left the room, closing the door behind her.
I stood there, frozen. I didn't know what to say. I had prepared myself for a monster, for a manipulator who used his power to hurt people. But this man — this calm, patient man — had just helped a woman make the hardest decision of her life.
Was that manipulation? Or was it therapy?
Julian gestured to the empty chair. "Sit down, Evelyn. You look nervous."
I sat. The chair was comfortable. Too comfortable. It felt like it was embracing me.
"Your file says you're twenty-eight years old. Graduated from University of Manchester with a degree in psychology. Worked three years as a research assistant at a private clinic. No prior clinical experience. No published papers."
He read these facts from my file with the boredom of a man reciting a grocery list.
"Your references are excellent," he continued. "Your former supervisor called you 'diligent, thorough, and emotionally stable.' She said you're one of the most professional young women she's ever met."
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