The Business of Revenge

The Hypotheticals of being Late

"I'm hardly late-" I began to try and defend myself but with one withering glance the words dried on the tip of my tongue, and I pushed back a scowl.

"And if you were a doctor, and you were even a minute late, and a patient died as a result would you say the same?"

"I-What?" I stuttered, but his eyes said he was dead serious. I mean, being 30 seconds late to an office job where no one was in danger of dying was not the same as whatever scenario he had just pushed onto me, "It's not the same. This isn't life and death."

His eyes raked over my body, in a splintering look that made me want to curl into myself, throw my jacket over his eyes so I didn't have to see them assessing me, analysing me as though I was pieces of hardware, that had gone haywire.

"Maybe you didn't know Niklaus Artymov as well as you thought then," the comment was somewhere between offhanded and the most important information ever. A confusing mess of something to process.

"You're telling me this revenge you want to carry out, is life or death? I hate him as much as you, if not more and I don't think he's going to kill you."

"Me?" He stood from his chair towering above me a good distance away so I had to turn and physically look up, not so much so that I was craning my neck, but it was enough of an incline to shove a power imbalance in my face, "He would never be able to kill me now. He would be six feet under before he even had the chance to press even a butter knife to my throat. But others, he has all the capability of killing, but that's not what makes this life-or-death Miss Laurence, as you are well aware he can destroy a person's life, and in a way sometimes those outcomes are worse than death,"

I let out a sound of exasperation, taking a strong step forward and not breaking eye contact, "Are you saying the life I am living is worse than death? Just because my psycho of an ex destroyed my career, doesn't mean my life is worthless. Mr Emerson," I half snarled his name, challenging him and imploring him to take back his words.

Instead, he wove around the desk until he was before me, way too close, that I got a lungful of his sage and cedarwood scent. A powerful smell that could very well have knocked me out had I not been adamant to stand up to this arse.

"You mistake me," his smooth words coiled around me, pulling me closer without me moving an inch, his head dipped a curious look on his face, followed by the most peculiar amusement, "You are the exception."

"The exception," I retorted, incredulous.

"Yes, the exception. You see, Niklaus Artymov tried to destroy you, your livelihood, your reputation, everything about you, and you didn't let that hinder you. You built yourself back up, sure you couldn't get a job in the corporate world, but your spirit never broke. I have seen countless people fall under his less than savoury side, and their lives were in fact ruined."

"So, what, I didn't let a dickhead get to me, and that makes me special?"

"No."

"Gee thanks, there goes my self-esteem."

Somehow, he was even closer, his lips curling into a smirk that had humour in it, a humour that was too close to mockery for my liking. He was polarising, to say the least, Mr Emerson might be even more unpredictable than me, by no means a loose cannon it seemed every action he took was meticulously planned out.

Even during this interaction, I was sure he had pictured it in his mind, what he would say, what he would do to get my attention to elevate my need for revenge. He was using me, and I knew it all too well.

But maybe I would even the playing field by using him too.

"You aren't special in any way that is exceptional. You are only deviating from the rule. Niklaus Artymov has a habit of destroying others, I am sure he revels in it. He takes pride in not being crossed but even when all his higher-ups blacklisted you from the industry, you didn't let up. You didn't fall into misery,"