"Who was that?" I asked, keeping my voice neutral.
"Just work," she said. She didn't look at me. "Sarah is having a crisis with a vendor."
Sarah, her assistant, had quit three weeks ago.
I didn't call her out. I didn't scream. I just felt a cold, hard knot form in my stomach. It was the realization that I was no longer a partner; I was a placeholder. I was the insurance policy she was holding onto while she shopped for a better rate.
I decided to test the water one last time. I made reservations at Lavelle, a French bistro she had been dying to try for months. It was expensive—the kind of place you go to celebrate an engagement or a major promotion. I wanted to see if the effort still mattered to her, or if she was too far gone.
Friday night arrived. I wore the suit she used to say made me look like James Bond. She wore a stunning black dress, but her energy was frantic. In the Uber, she checked her phone four times. She didn't ask about my day. She didn't comment on the restaurant.
We sat down. The ambiance was romantic: low light, candles, soft jazz. Perfect for a couple in love. Perfect for a breakup, too.
She ordered the most expensive wine on the list without asking me. She drank the first glass quickly, her eyes darting around the room as if looking for an exit or an audience. By the time the appetizers arrived, the silence between us was so thick it felt physical.
I decided to break it. "You seem distracted, Ness," I said, cutting into my tartare. "Is everything okay?"
She put her fork down. She took a deep breath. And for a second, I thought she was going to apologize for being distant. I thought she might say she was stressed or anxious.
Instead, she looked me dead in the eye, her expression frighteningly calm. "I need to be honest with you," she said. "I've been talking to Dylan."
I stopped eating. I carefully placed my knife and fork on the edge of the plate. I didn't speak; I just waited.
The lack of reaction seemed to unsettle her. She wanted a fight. She wanted me to raise my voice so she could call me controlling. When I didn't, she had to keep talking to fill the void.
"He reached out a few weeks ago," she continued, her voice gaining a strange, arrogant confidence. "He apologized for everything in the past. He's changed, Mark. He's doing really well. He's got this energy about him now—it's magnetic. He wants us to try again. He says he never stopped thinking about me."
She paused, taking a sip of wine. She was watching me closely, checking for jealousy.
"Okay," I said. My voice was flat. "Why are you telling me this here?"