“Yes.”
“That’s good.” His smile holds, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “These retreats can be demanding.”
He says it like it explains everything, like it erases what he did.
I let the silence hang between us, giving him nothing to reshape or redirect.
Across the room, the ballroom doors open, and the shift pulls my attention before I consciously decide to move.
Camden.
He steps inside and pauses just past the threshold as his eyes move across the room, assessing and cataloging.
Then his gaze lands on us.
Onme.
Something flickers across his face, but it’s gone just as quickly, buried beneath the confidence he wears. He reaches for his tie with a quick, precise tug.
A reset.
Then he moves toward the partners as if he can’t feel the tension brewing between us.
Fucker.
I take a step forward to meet him head-on, but the host steps up to the podium and taps the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, his voice carrying easily across the room, “if everyone could take their seats, dinner will begin shortly.”
The room settles into order without question, everyone taking their seats at their assigned tables.
Everyone except me.
I stay where I am, letting the silence deepen as the last chair stills and the final shift of movement fades into nothing.
Then I move.
Not quickly, but with intention, aware of every set of eyes that hasn’t turned yet, and the exact moment they do.
The host turns toward me as I approach, confusion flickering across his face when I reach for the microphone, his hand lingering for half a second too long before my expression makes the decision for him.
He lets go.
Voices thin as I step into position, a few associates turning in their chairs as curiosity pulls their attention first, followed by the slower, more deliberate focus of the rest of the room.
Harris is already watching me from his seat.
His gaze sharpens, something more focused settling behind it as whatever ease he carried in with him begins to recalibrate.
Masden leans back in his chair as if he’s settling in for something mildly entertaining.
Camden folds his hands neatly on the table in front of him, his posture straight and expression composed.
Waiting.
The room quiets completely as I adjust the microphone slightly.
“Good evening.”
My voice carries cleanly across the ballroom, and a few polite nods follow.
