Discard

His eyes fixed on her face, the smooth elasticity of youth peering back at him. The corner of her mouth rose slightly, the wrinkle near her left eye let him know her smile was genuine. The gleaming glass towers of the financial district loomed around them, casting long shadows across the plaza where junior analysts scurried between meetings. He'd watched promising talents come and go for twenty years in this cutthroat investment firm—most crushed under the weight of ambition and naivety. It hurt that she was happy to see him. He'd never meant for her to mean anything to him. He'd never loved any of the others. He was immovable—a marble mountain before her, unreadable, unknowable.

Her grin widened, perfect white teeth flashing as she closed the last fifty feet between them, her smile not yet faltering as it would when he cast her off. He controlled his expression, didn't let the icy pang of regret show on his face as his eyes traced the braids in her hair. Flashes of his calloused fingers loosening the tight plaits, her hair tumbling around him in soft waves were fists clenching around his heart. Late nights of laughter, softness leaning against his side, playful pokes, vulnerable moments. Stab after stab of memory.

She stood before him; still, he said nothing, rooted, gazing down nearly a foot into her confused eyes. There was no panic yet, nothing broken, no understanding dawning in their innocent depths. Her lips parted, breathing in as if about to break the silence. Seconds passed, and she let the breath go, closed her lips, and cocked her head.

She could sense something wrong now. She deferred to him. The mentor. The experienced one. The one who would lead her through all the problematic areas of her life. The one who had destroyed her boundaries, controlled her, abused her. She would wait for him to speak, to tell her why the air suddenly felt dead.

"You will hurt anyone to get what you want." Softly, just above a whisper, he began the demolition. He'd been building up to this point for months. Periods of cold and warmth. Carefully elevating her, followed by subtle devaluation.

"I spent hundreds of hours helping you, and you haven't listened to anything I've said." He flung the words at her, laced with a crisp bite. He could see her mind racing through the evidence. The weight loss, her role in the complex merger, the job offer. She'd made monumental progress, but he'd planted all the seeds of doubt. She hadn't lost enough; she had only been a bit part of the merger, and she had settled for her second-choice job.

"I have listened to you," she said, a flash of indignation hardening her voice. "I followed your advice but made my own decisions too. That merger wouldn't have happened without me. I got the job—the one you said was impossible." He couldn't let her see the tear across his soul as unexpected pride mingled with the hurt pouring from her mouth. "I'm starting in two weeks." He forced fury into his eyes, the hard line of his mouth masking his recognition that she'd already grown stronger than he anticipated.

"I can't trust you anymore. You didn't do anything I told you to do, and now you try to wave your tiny victories under my nose. You've been a waste of my time." Her bottom lip was already quivering as she tried desperately to control her face. A single tear slid from her left eye. More tears followed as the realization fell upon her that he really was the monster he'd claimed to be all those months ago.

"I am on a better path. I haven't done anything self-destructive in weeks. I am not a waste of time." But her voice broke, and he knew she hadn't convinced herself she was worth anything at all.

"You are a narcissist." He secured the final nail. Narcissist. He'd made sure she understood that in his world, a narcissist was the most evil thing you could be. A narcissist had destroyed his family. A narcissist had made him who he was. He'd spent the last weeks confusing her reality. Had she hurt him? Had she hurt her best friend? Was she not empathetic enough? Did she not care about her sister's problems? Was she actually his friend?

He turned as she fell to her knees on the sidewalk, tears pouring down her cheeks. A cold wind whipped between the buildings, carrying the acrid smell of bus exhaust and the distant wail of sirens. Her soft sobs were nearly lost in the urban cacophony, but each one struck him like a physical blow. The concrete would bruise her knees—another minor pain he was responsible for. He left her destroyed, broken, but not hopeless.

He turned to her one last time. "You were only ever the appearance of a friend." A tear slid down his face, knowing it would be the last thing he ever said to her.

She had been full of hope and excitement, so eager to please, so naive to the ways of this industry. He had seen others like her—brilliant but sheltered—destroyed by predators far worse than him. He remembered finding Julia from accounting sobbing in the stairwell after the CFO's "special mentorship" and bright-eyed Thomas, who'd been scapegoated for his manager's embezzlement. He had taken her to bed not from desire or as payment for mentorship but to create vulnerability he could exploit. A controlled demolition of her trust to inoculate her against the true sharks. To him, his cruelty was mercy—better to bleed from his calculated wounds than be devoured alive in corporate America.

But he wasn't actually a shark. He'd left her a pathway to recovery. A way to name the emotional abuse he'd put her through. And next time—there would be no next time. Next time, she would recognize the red flags, the unbalanced power dynamics, the gaslighting.

He continued walking, her sobs fading with each step he took. This was the last one, he promised himself, just as he had after the previous three. He was getting older; it was time to retire these "emotional vaccinations." As he reached the corner, he caught his reflection in a darkened storefront—the same cold eyes as the senior partner who had broken him years ago. Had that been a necessary lesson, or merely cruelty passing itself down? The next dewy-eyed idealist would need to develop her own backbone if she wanted to survive this shithole of a profession.