"I had to," I said, strolling up to her, hoping to take her in my arms to comfort her. "He was fishing for confirmation. If I had said anything else?—"
"I know," she interrupted, but her voice was shaky now. "I know why you did it. But it still hurt to hear."
"Ember—"
"I should go home," she said, and she turned away from me, taking her sweater from the back of her chair. "You have the fundraiser tonight, and I'll only make things worse if I'm there."
"You don't have to leave, please." I reached for her, but she was already moving toward the door.
"Yes, I do." She looked at me, and the resignation in her expression cut me to the quick. "I'll see you Monday."
She was gone before I could stop her, and I stood alone in my office.
I silently cursed Thomas Reed for his intrusion and myself for the words I had spoken.
Hurting her was the farthest thing from my mind or desire, but there was no taking the words back.
I sank into the chair she vacated, feeling sorry for myself and inwardly chastising myself for not being more sensitive.
In fighting for our right as a couple, I'd inadvertently pushed her away farther, and it stung.
The fundraiser began two hours later in the hospital's large conference room.
The board had gone to great lengths to transform the space into something luxurious, but without a date, it felt hollow and pointless.
As dean of medicine, however, I had an obligation to be here, and I walked in knowing I'd hate every second of it.
I couldn’t ignore Ember's absence, either. I tried, God help me, but conversations seemed shallow or meaningless.
Donors seemed to want to be charmed or dazzled, but I felt like the most uncharming and boring fool as I shook hands and forced myself through the motions.
It didn't feel right to have a good time knowing I'd hurt her and she was at home, probably crying.
No one mentioned her directly, but I saw the glances, the whispered conversations that ceased when I approached.
I was damned if I showed up with her and damned when I didn't.
The scrutiny was exhausting, and I found myself longing for the solitude of my brownstone.
Mr. Reed approached midway through the evening, carrying two glasses of scotch.
He handed one to me without comment, and we stood side by side, watching the crowd.
His chest was puffed out farther than normal, and his shoulders were squared.
As a public official in Beacon Hill, he was here only because it was the thing to do this weekend.
He had no affiliation with the hospital or intention to donate, just to spy on the happenings of the wealthy elite who could flag cash around.
Very presumptuous of him, considering he'd never been asked to be Lightkeeper.
I didn't have to ask why.
"The event's going well," he said, his tone lighter than it had been in my office.
"It is," I replied, though I found little enthusiasm for the observation. I was ready to go home as soon as I could slip out without being noticed.
"I'm glad we had that conversation earlier," Thomas continued. "It's important to maintain boundaries. The committee appreciates your professionalism."
