Chapter 7
I didn't announce it. I just decided I was going to walk.
The guests had made their choice. I'd felt it in the last minute, the way their eyes slid off me when I looked for help, the way they held their champagne and kept a careful six feet of distance. My father was somewhere behind me near the edge of the ballroom, but I didn't look back to check. If I looked back I'd hesitate, and if I hesitated Jonah would fill the space with another line.
I pushed off the wall I'd been leaning against and stepped out onto the polished marble. My feet were bare. I hadn't even realized until the floor hit cold against my soles. The debris was still there, scattered reflective pieces catching the chandelier light, and I had to pick my way around them. Each step made a soft sound. The slit in my dress caught on my leg and I reached down without thinking to hold the fabric, my wrist throbbing where the bruise was dark and tender.
Jonah saw me before I was halfway to the staircase. He'd been standing by the curve of the ornate railing, hands loose, watching the room like he owned the air in it. That was his house. His rules. He didn't move right away. He just tracked me, his head turning slightly, that composed posture never breaking. The guests parted without being asked, making a quiet channel for me that led straight to him.
My breath got shallow. I counted the stairs. Twelve to the landing, then the turn, then the front doors I knew were beyond the hall. I told myself I only had to get past the staircase. Outside there was a parking lot, a highway, a gas station with lights on. Anything that wasn't this floor.
When I was about ten feet away, Jonah stepped forward.
He didn't lunge. He didn't have to. He just shifted his weight and placed himself directly in the center of the hallway between the stairs and the ballroom, feet planted, shoulders back. His tuxedo was perfect, white pocket square bright against the black, and he lifted one hand to his jacket. He adjusted it at the torso, a slow, deliberate tug, smoothing the fabric. His eyes were on me the whole time and he smiled. Not wide. Just enough.
"You made a mistake," he said. His voice was low and even, like he was correcting a child who'd used the wrong fork. He said it the way you'd say it to someone who'd already agreed.
I stopped. My feet stuck to the cold marble. I could see the bruises on my own chest in my peripheral vision, the marks on my shoulders that the dress didn't hide. I felt everyone behind me watching but no one moving.
I tried to keep my voice steady. "I'm leaving."
He tilted his head, the smile still there. "You're not," he said. "You're upset. You're not thinking."
He took half a step closer and I flinched before I could stop myself. He noticed. Of course he noticed. He reached out like he was going to steady me, hand hovering near my elbow, not quite touching. The gesture looked caring from a distance. Up close his fingers were tense.
"You walk out that door like this," he said, quieter now, "you make me look like I did something. You make us both look bad. Come upstairs. We'll talk."
My throat closed. The hallway suddenly felt narrower, the staircase railing curving in like a wall. I realized I didn't actually know if the front door was locked. I realized I'd never tried to leave this house without his permission before, not really. Not on a night like this, with everyone watching.
"Jonah," I said, and my voice cracked. "Move."
He didn't. He just kept that even smile, his hand still hovering.
Then my father's hand came down on Jonah's shoulder.
I hadn't heard him come up behind me. One second Jonah was filling my vision, the next my father was there, stepping around me and placing himself squarely between us. He wasn't tall, but he was solid, and he put his back to me and his face to Jonah. I could see the back of his suit jacket, the line of his shoulders.
"She said move," my father said. He didn't shout. He said it flat, the way you'd tell someone to step back from a ledge.
Jonah's smile tightened. He dropped his hand from his jacket and let it fall to his side. For a moment his composure slipped and I saw his jaw work.
"She's my wife," Jonah said to my father, still in that controlled tone, like he was explaining a house rule. "This is my house. We're handling this privately."
My father didn't move. He shifted his feet a little wider on the reflective floor, planting himself in the hallway so there was no way around him without pushing.
"You're not handling anything by blocking a door," my father said. He glanced back at me, just his eyes, checking my face, my wrists, the dress. "Elise, stay behind me."
Jonah looked past my father at me, and his eyes softened into something that would have looked like concern to anyone else in the ballroom. "Elise," he said, his voice gentler now, performing. "You're making a mistake."
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I pressed my hands together to stop them shaking. The marble was cold under my feet. The guests were still there, a silent line on either side, and the chandelier threw light over all of us, over the debris, over Jonah's perfect tuxedo and my father's back. I was still on the ballroom side of the stairs. I hadn't gotten through. But Jonah couldn't reach me now without going through my father first, and for the first time that night, he had to wait.
My father held his ground in the hallway, and I stayed behind him, breathing hard, staring at the staircase I still couldn't reach.
