Chapter 12
The argument started low, behind me, while I kept my hand around the phone.
I hadn't moved from the edge of the couch. The cream damask was still warm where I'd been lying. The crystal lamp on the side table threw that same golden light across the room, and in that light I could see the three of them in the gold-framed mirror across from me — not looking at me anymore, looking at each other. The recording light on my phone was off, but the red bar was still running when I tipped the screen toward my lap. It had caught everything from the mirror.
The blond man was the first to break.
He'd stood on the right side of the couch since I'd opened my eyes, hands in his pockets the whole time like that was his job. Now he pulled them out. Slowly, like he had to decide to do it. He shoved his hands into his light gray suit pants once and then pulled them right back out and let them hang at his sides.
"I'm not doing this," he said. His voice was flat and tired. "I'm not going to lie for the foundation."
The older man didn't turn his head at first. He stood center behind the couch, arms crossed, his dark three-piece suit pulling tight across his shoulders. The large square silver ring with the black onyx center caught the chandelier light on his left hand. He'd been touching his chin with that hand when he thought the phone was recording him.
"You will watch your tone," the older man said to the blond man. "You will remember who brought you into this room."
"I remember," the blond man said. "That's the problem. You told me this was a private conversation about the donor deal. You didn't say she'd be on that couch like that."
The man in black suit stepped between them without thinking. He'd been on my left, his fist still near the back of the couch where he'd been leaning over me. His black shirt was wrinkled at the collar. He looked at the older man, then at me, then back at the blond man, and I could see him trying to hold two loyalties at once and failing at both.
"Stop," he said. He held a hand out to the older man. "Don't threaten him. And don't —" He looked down at me. "Please, both of you, just stop talking for a second."
That was the plea. The same one he'd tried on me earlier when he'd said I misunderstood everything. Now it was thinner. He crouched a little so he was closer to my eye level at the couch, his dark wavy hair falling forward.
"Listen to me," he said to me, quieter. "We can fix this without any of this going anywhere. You don't want this recording to ruin everything. He doesn't want that either." He glanced at the older man. "Right? We don't need to ruin everything."
The older man uncrossed his arms. He lifted his left hand, the one with the ring, and turned it so the black stone faced out. It was a small movement, but he'd done it before when he wanted a room to remember who had authority. In the mirror I saw his reflection do it twice.
"You both seem to forget what that phone can and cannot do," he said. His voice stayed low, but it carried across the living room. "That device does not leave this living room with anything on it. And neither do your positions if you continue. I built that foundation. I funded your law school," he said to the blond man. "I approved your partnership," he said to the man in black suit. "I can cut you both off with one call. That is not a metaphor."
The man in black suit flinched. "You don't mean that."
"I do," the older man said. "Put the phone on the table."
Nobody moved. The white roses in the vase by the lamp hadn't moved all night. The air still smelled faintly of chandelier dust and the perfume from my dress. My sequined halter strap had slipped and I pulled it straight with my free hand while I kept the phone angled down. My breath was shallow and I let it stay that way, restrained, like I'd been taught tonight without being taught.
The blond man shook his head. "I'm not lying about what I saw," he said. "She said 'I heard every word.' She was awake. You told me she wouldn't remember the carry part."
The older man's jaw tightened. The carry word hung there. It was the word I'd needed on the recording, and now it was there twice.
I used the fracture.
I pushed myself up a little on the couch and didn't look at the older man. I looked at the man in black suit because he was the only one still trying to be kind, even if his kindness was gaslighting.
"I feel sick," I said. It wasn't a lie. My head was still light from however I'd ended up on that couch. "Can I — can I go to the powder room for a minute? Just a minute alone? Please?"
The older man started to say no. I saw it forming.
The man in black suit cut him off. "Let her," he said to the older man. "Give her a minute. We're all heated. Let her get air."
The blond man was already stepping back from the couch, away from the other two, toward the side wall with the framed photo. He put his hands behind his back now, not in his pockets. Neutral. Done.
"She can have a minute," the blond man said. "I'm not standing over her while she begs for a bathroom."
The older man looked between them, and for the first time that night his coalition wasn't solid behind the couch. His ringed hand curled into a fist, then opened. He gave a short nod toward the hallway threshold past the gold mirror, the one that led to the powder room.
"One minute," he said to me. "Door open. Phone stays."
"Phone goes with me," I said, and my voice shook in a way I didn't have to fake. "In case I — in case I need to call someone if I faint."
The man in black suit nodded fast, eager to agree to something. "She takes it. It's fine. We'll be right here."
The older man stared at me, at the black smartphone in my right hand, then at his ring. He let the hallway threshold be the compromise.
May you like
"Go," he said.
I stood, sequins catching the lamp light, teardrop crystal earring swinging against my neck, and walked the three steps from the cream couch to the hallway with the phone tight against my palm, the recording still running, the door to the powder room just ahead and not yet closed.
