Page 17 of A Taste of Vanilla

My head tilts. “Fair?”

Elise flinches, and Grant seems to realize far too late that he chose the wrong word.

He lifts his hands, palms out as men do when they want credit for not being physically threatening while emotionally setting fire to your entire life.

“I didn’t mean?—”

“What did you mean?” I ask calmly.

His eyes flicker to Elise, then back to me. Another move I’mfar too familiar with. A calculation. The awareness that we aren’t alone, and the irritation that the scene includes a witness he can’t control. The realization that he can’t say exactly what he wants to, so he has to rearrange his words into a less damaging order.

I’ve seen Grant do it many times. In meetings and at dinners and with vendors.

And with me.

“I mean,” he says carefully, “you walked in at a bad moment.”

My lungs forget how to work.

A bad moment. Like this is traffic. Like it’s rain at an outdoor wedding or I overbaked the brownies.

I look at Elise. She looks at the floor.

“A bad moment,” I repeat, tasting the words on my tongue.

Grant’s mouth tightens. “Yes.”

“How long has this moment been happening?”

His face changes, and in that instant, I know.

My stomach drops through the floor, down twenty-two stories, and into the lobby. “How long?” I ask, making him say it.

“Halston, this isn’t the place to have this conversation.”

“Oh,” I nod slowly. “Where is the place? Should I make a reservation? Is there a conference room for fiancé betrayal, or do you usually use your desk?”

Elise starts crying.

Grant, on the other hand, looks angry. It’s always subtle, like it’s simmering just under the surface. Always controlled. Always mature. Sometimes framed as concern. But if you look close enough, you can see the muscle in his jaw jump.

“Don’t be cruel.”

The coldness hits me. I’m not angry. Not yet. I’m just… cold. A clean, white freeze that moves through me, turning everything sharp and bright.

“Cruel,” I repeat again.

He closes his eyes briefly. “You know what I mean.”

“I don’t think I do.” My arms feel numb at my sides.

“You’re upset.”

I laugh once, and his expression hardens.

“You’re upset,” he says again, as if I’m the unreasonable person in this room, “and you have every right to be. But escalating this won’t help anything.”

“Escalating.” It’s like I have to really savor every word as he says them, committing them to memory.