"Blaire—"
"Goodnight, Colton."
I hung up.
He called back immediately. And like the sadist that I am, I answered.
Then I sat on the floor of this beautiful loft with my back against the couch and I listened to him rewrite our marriage in real time, and when I hung up forty minutes later I opened a second bottle of wine, pulled my knees to my chest and stayed there longer than I'd like to admit.
That may not be what pushed me into my current recluse spiral, but it’s definitely what's kept me in it.
I know what he's doing. I know the architecture of it — I work in manipulation professionally; I can see the seams. Colt is running out of legal leverage and pivoting to emotional, because emotional is where he's always had the most success with me. He knows exactly which version of himself to present and for how long.
I know all of this.
It doesn't fully help.
I get up off the floor, pad to the front door sliding on my robe and platform sandals. I need to eat something real. Something that requires a plate. I make my way down the hallway to the elevators, heading to put in a takeout order at Verona. It's just past seven. My meeting with Bennet is first thing in the morning and I need sleep before I can be useful to anyone, including myself.
The elevator doors open.
And of course, there he is. I should have just used the butler service.
I hadn't really looked at Bennet in the conference room yesterday — not properly, not the way you look at someone when you're not busy managing a roomful of board members and a client who's trying to decide whether to cooperate. I was in work mode. I was reading the room.
I'm not reading a room right now. I'm standing in a hallway in my pajamas at seven PM and Bennet Sullivan is six feet away dressed in all black — button up shirt open at the collar, ink visible at his chest, tailored blazer, trousers that do absolutely no justice to what is happening with his thighs.
Holy hell.
I clear my throat. Step into the elevator. Professional. Composed.
"Mr. Sullivan." I nod.
He says nothing. His expression is unreadable.
The doors close.
I catch my reflection in the mirrored panel and audibly gasp.
My eyeliner has migrated south. Significantly south. The streaks from earlier have dried into something that belongs to a Halloween costume. My robe is open over pajamas I've been wearing since yesterday — small coffee stain on the left side that I'd forgotten about. My hair has been in a bun for approximately eighteen hours and is staging an active revolt, pieces escaping in every direction possible.
The two of us stand in silence for exactly one beat.
"Hot date?" Bennet asks.
His voice is completely neutral. His face is completely neutral. I close my robe.
"Takeout," I say. With dignity. What remains of it.
"You have a butler that could have done that for you."
"I'm aware, thank you."
Another beat of silence. The elevator hums downward. I watch the floor numbers change so I don’t look at him and absolutely do not look at my reflection again.
"You might want to—" He makes a vague gesture toward his own eye.
"I'm aware of that too."
