Chapter 7
The older man's phone buzzed against the side table and he didn't look at me when he answered it. He just lifted his left hand, the square onyx ring catching the light from the crystal lamp, and turned toward the hallway.
"I'll take this in the office," he said. His voice was low, even. He looked at the blond man once, a short nod, and then he was gone. His shoes made no sound on the rug.
The living room felt larger without him in it. The chandelier kept humming warm light over the couch, over the vase of white roses next to the lamp. I hadn't moved. My phone was tucked under my thigh now, screen down, and my heart was beating so hard I could feel it against the sequins of my dress.
The blond man hadn't moved either. His hands were still in the pockets of his light gray suit. He stared at the place where the older man had been standing, then at the gold-framed mirror, then finally at me. When our eyes met he flinched.
"You okay?" he asked. It came out quiet, almost a whisper, like he was afraid the hallway would carry it.
I didn't answer right away. I let my breath come in slowly and watched his face. His jaw was tight and there was color high on his cheeks that hadn't been there before.
"You're still crying," he said. He took one hand out of his pocket and then put it back, like he didn't know what to do with it.
"I couldn't help it," I said. My voice was hoarse. "Did you think I wouldn't wake up?"
That made him look down. He swallowed. The lamp light caught the edge of his white shirt and made it glow.
"I was told to stand and watch," he said, so low I had to strain to hear it. "Just stand there. Hands in pockets. Don't say anything. He said you were upset, that you'd had too much to drink after the gala. I didn't expect you to wake up crying. I didn't expect—" He stopped and glanced toward the hallway again. No sound came from there. "You looked like you couldn't breathe."
I shifted a little on the cream damask couch, feeling the tufting press into my back. The tears had dried on my cheeks and left them tight.
"Who told you to stand there?" I asked.
He hesitated. "You know who."
"Say it anyway."
"The older man," he whispered. "He said it would be better if we were all there when you calmed down. So there'd be no confusion about what happened."
The phrase landed exactly the same as the night of the gala had. No confusion. That was what the man in the black suit had said to me too when he leaned over the couch.
I kept my hand on my phone under my thigh. I needed something I could prove.
"What's happening tomorrow?" I asked. "At the tower. The foundation meeting."
His head snapped up. "How do you know about that?"
"I heard every word," I said. It was the same sentence I'd said on camera, but now I said it calmly, looking straight at him. "When I had my eyes closed on this couch. You all thought I was out. I wasn't."
He stared at me, and I saw the calculation happen behind his eyes — whether to deny it, whether to walk away.
"Please," I said, and I let my voice shake just a little. "If I go in there tomorrow and say the wrong name, he'll make it my fault. Tell me the name so I don't get it wrong."
He took a step closer to the couch, then stopped himself. His hands twisted in his pockets.
"Whitaker," he said finally. His voice was barely audible over the soft tick of the lamp. "Donor's name is Whitaker. Whitaker Group. Meeting's tomorrow at ten at the foundation tower. That's what this whole night was about. He needs you there smiling for Whitaker. That's why he—" He cut himself off.
Whitaker. Foundation tower. Tomorrow at ten. I repeated it in my head twice so I wouldn't forget it even if my hands were shaking. That was verifiable. That was real.
"Thank you," I whispered.
He shook his head quickly. "Don't thank me. And don't accuse him. Not tonight, not on your phone."
"Why?"
He glanced at the black smartphone under my hand. My fingers tightened without meaning to.
"Because he can erase it," he said. "The older man. He has someone who does his phones. If you accuse him out loud, if you make a scene, he'll wipe your phone remotely before you get to the door. I've seen him do it before. Everything — photos, recordings, notes. Gone. And then it's just your word against his again."
The warmth from the lamp suddenly felt too hot. The white roses beside it were perfectly still, perfectly white, like they hadn't moved in hours.
"Has he done that to you?" I asked.
He didn't answer. He just looked at the roses, at the lamp, anywhere but at me. That was answer enough.
May you like
From the hallway came the sound of a door closing. The blond man stepped back instantly, hands back in pockets, face blank again. He'd put the mask back on so fast I would have doubted the last two minutes if I hadn't had the name Whitaker burning in my chest.
The older man's footsteps started back toward the living room. I slipped my phone a little deeper under my leg and closed my eyes for half a second, breathing in the warm light the way I'd been before — like a woman still trying to wake up.
