37. Shostakovich/3.

Going through her notes, Mira chewed on the top tip of the pen and didn't even hear the door click. 

By the time she raised her eyes, it was already too late to dash for the closet. 

"Who is this?" asked a beautiful woman with glossy blond hair that made Mira feel like a potato. 

She gaped at a loss. 

"This is Mira," Warshon's voice arrived before his presence. "Mira Shostakovich." He stopped behind the woman for whom beautiful was too pale an adjective. "Now, what was that you said I must hear?" 

The goddess of a woman glared at him, a poignant brew of rage and shame in her teal eyes. She whipped her head toward Mira. "Get out," she demanded. "I need to speak to him. Alone."

Mira shot up from the couch too fast it got her lightheaded. The tome fell from her lap and thudded on her foot. She groped for the backrest for balance but caught Warshon instead. 

Spinning her around to lean on his chest, he gripped her shoulder. "Whatever you have to say, you can say to her." 

"Warshon!"

"I can leave." Mira flicked her eyes between the two spits of fire and decided the floor was safer to look at. "Life is hard, you guys. And I really don't wanna survive all those IV bags only to die from knowing what I shouldn't." She squirmed in his grip, trying to wrench free to no avail. 

"Sit down, Mira." 

"I don't want to be in your way. And it really is no trou–"

"I said sit down!" 

Mira clammed up. A daring glimpse caught him looking daggers at the other woman while he eased her back on the couch, his hand interlacing with hers, refusing to let go. 

Like her trouble hadn't been enough, she was now caught in a crossfire of what seemed to be an old flame. She crumpled against the backrest, her cheek to the shoulder, her sideways glances at the goddess apologetic, pleading for her to realize it wasn't what it looked like. 

The woman backed a step as if punched, her head bobbing, angling to the side. "I'm not here to talk about us," she said at length, a quaver ripping her otherwise measured voice. "It's about your father. He called and asked me to bring Sommer here, to you. Now, do you still want me to go on?" She snapped her eyes to Mira, a glaring look of hate and spite. 

Lord Arslan Qusbecq. Mira gulped at the thought of the name, one Reynold had warned. A man's secret may be the other's leverage indeed, but it could also be the harbinger of death, depending on how the cards were played. She knew no one here to leverage the secrets. And the more she knew, the more she became a nuisance to be snuffed out. She didn't need to know who Sommer was to know she had to get out of there. 

But Warshon wasn't to budge. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he said, "This is my office, and she is my patient. Mine. She knows more about me in a day than you do all these years. Whatever you want to say, say it now, or get out." 

"You haven't changed the passcode."

"I'm lazy."

She chortled, her arms crossed upon her chest. Pursing her lips, she kept her teal eyes on the LED screen facing the floor-to-ceiling window and preceded to the mammoth desk. "This is your last chance, Warshon. You sure you want to have her involved?"

"You won't find her here if she isn't already involved," he pronounced, tilting his head, his eyes a glint. "Now, do you want to say it or not? You're trying my patience." 

"Your father sent eyes on me this morning. I don't know them. And I can't say for sure if any of them have followed us into the building. But they're lurking around to see how this meeting will go. Why do you think Sommer is an interest of your father? Why should he care if Zahid's wife should live? Even so, why can't he ask you himself? When I questioned him, he said it'd look as if he's trying to chum up to the DEA for endorsement, and it wouldn't look good on the Conservatives before the election. What kind of bullshit is that? No one will find out if he asks you in person, and nothing untoward for Zahid to come here for medical advice. Why went the extra mile, asking me for the favor?"

Warshon let out a chuckle dripping in disdain. "What have you got in return for the favor this time, Guiliana?" 

Guiliana? Oh… Mira bit her bottom lip. So she's the one who called. And while Guiliana stared at him through the tears welling up in her eyes, Mira ventured, "May I say something?"

Both of them snapped their eyes to her. 

She stifled a shudder and forced out a grin that must look as gauche as she felt. "Just before you go on and spill more because he's kind of making you," she paused, turning to Guiliana with her pleading eyes. "I don't really know any of the names you mentioned, and I'm pretty sure I don't want to. But, judging from what I heard, if there is no obvious reason for Lord Qusbecq to care should the wife live or die, trying to save her usually means he wants something from the husband, or someone who cares about her that may be of use to him or a group of interest behind him. He didn't ask Warshon himself likely because it's not a nice thing to ask as a father, because he knows there is a good reason Warshon may not want to help this Zahid, the DEA commander, you said?" she paused for a cough. 

Recounting the night at the Port, she mulled over whether the ex-girlfriend was aware of the phantom mask he wore and decided to err on the side of caution. She turned to Warshon and continued, offering a shrug as dismissive as her shoulders permitted, "Didn't the news say the DEA raided your Plant or something? Did this Zahid or whatever have anything to do with it? Anyway, if I were Lord Qusbecq, I, too, would delegate to avoid awkward situations like now. As for why he delegated you," she darted a quick glance up at Guiliana, the hand free from Warshon's grip clutching at the plush couch. She dipped her head. "Well, obviously, you're of great importance to his son, and he wants to test to what extent the importance still holds, so perhaps you'll play a role in swaying him in the next steps of his plan, whatever that is. And if you want to delve into the plan, what kind of sway he wishes to exert on his son through you, you'll have to send a message to the busybodies downstairs. Give them the impression that Warshon hasn't got over you a bit, that you can be leveraged, so to speak."

Mira raised her head a little and found four eyes drilling at her. "It's all just conjecture based on what she said…" Stumbling through her words, she recognized her mistake. She said what she did so Guiliana wouldn't let on more she shouldn't know, only to prove she had known too much. Mira, you fucking idiot!

Sagging into the couch, she whimpered, "May I be excused now?" 

But his hand pulled her closer to him, a devouring heat emanating from his onyx gaze. 

Guiliana scoffed, "And I suppose taking in Sommer as a patient isn't good enough a message?"

Mira shook her head, lifting her eyes to brave the gaze that skinned her from across the floor. "The doctor's oath. Being a father, Lord Qusbecq should know that Warshon won't send away a patient. Turning Sommer away can only look forced and arouse suspicion. But…" Pausing with another fit of cough, she wondered how many suicides one could attempt in so short a time. She supposed it made no difference now. 

"But what?" Guiliana pressed on. 

"What if Zahid turned down the treatment?" she coughed more. The same queasy feeling returned, sending up the fluffy egg sandwich he had bought for her breakfast. A groan escaped her throat, and her face winced. 

Warshon patted her on the back, his eyes staying on her the whole time. "Are you alright?" he asked, his soft voice hypnotic. 

Mira nodded, putting on a big smile at him as she always did when her doctor checked on her – as if big enough a smile would fool them so they'd discharge her. "Send it every week by mail to a postal box rented by a third party if it's just prescriptions, so you can treat Sommer without her coming in," she continued, "Have the husband call you a quack when he storms out, something like that. This way, Lord Qusbecq knows that either he needs to find another way to keep Sommer alive, or he won't get what he wants from Zahid, whatever that is. And even if Sommer needs to come in for in-person treatments," she paused, mustering up the guts to look Guiliana in the eye. "You can still make Lord Qusbecq believe you have sway over Warshon, so you can lure him into his next move, divulging more to you, perhaps." 

Shaking her head, Guiliana chuckled. "And what do you propose to make that false impression?"

"Simple," Mira shrugged. "Spend the afternoon here. Stay in his office hours after Zahid left. Brew the suspicion that you have, say, unfinished business, so to speak. Once Lord Quesbecq come to the conclusion on his own, you'll be the golden girl, an indispensable cog. But the question is, are you ready for what's next? Do you want to be the cog?" 

"So tell me," Guiliana observed, her voice unhurried, her head high. The hate and spite in her hazel eyes had opacified, rendering her unreadable. Why shouldn't I inform the lord of you?"

"Because you wouldn't want to waste the opportunity," Thriving on challenges as such, Mira didn't bow down. "A pawn must cross the board first before declaring itself a queen. And to avoid being discarded halfway, it must prove itself useful. And you, lady, you want to be a player. Besides, why should Lord Qusbecq believe that some total outsider could have any sway on his son? Jamming me into the plot, you'll only push him to scrap the plan in which you could have a role to play. However, I doubt it'd be a pleasant role. So, back to my previous question, are you ready for what's next?"

Guiliana faltered for a moment longer than perhaps intended. "No, my dear," she said at length, her head tipping to the shoulder. "The question you should ask is are you ready to spend the afternoon with his ex, who came with, what was that, unfinished business?"

"Me?" Caught off guard, Mira turned to Warshon for help. But he only smirked at her, looking well amused. She gritted her teeth. "Oh, c'mon!" she hawked up a cackle. "You don't need to worry about me. It's all just a misunderstanding! I mean look at you! You're a goddess, while I look like I could be in my grave tomorrow! He's all yours! And this?" She stared at Warshon, trying to shake off his hand that wouldn't let go. "We bro!" 

The smirk that spread from his burgundy red lips turned quizzical. Warshon glimpsed at his watch. "Well, I have to go and speak to Zahid now if I don't want to be abhorrently late for the next appointment." Then, lowering his head to Mira, he gripped her chin and made her look him in the eye. "That was the most fun I've had in ages. Bro," he breathed to her ear, his voice deep and low, running down her neck like the brush of a feather. "I'll deal with you later."