“He loved the optics,” Irving continues, voice calm in a way anger often is when it’s old. “The right dinners. The right cities. The right photos. But any time I wanted something for myself, there was suddenly a problem. Silicon Valley was provincial. You guys were distractions. My work mattered less than his because his sounded grander over cocktails.”
Marisol mutters, “Asshole.”
“Exactly.” Irving reaches for his wine but doesn’t drink it yet. “I wasted too much time thinking effort would turn him into someone honest.”
Something goes very still inside me. Across from me, Sky finally makes direct eye contact and she’s not giving sympathy for Irving. Or abstract disapproval for Hudson.
It’s disgust. Aimed squarely at me.
Nothing loud or dramatic. No one else would notice the brief, unmistakable clench around her mouth. Or the flicker in her eyes I’ve often seen when she speaks about the opposing party in cases she tries.
It’s a look that has never directed atme.
I stop breathing for half a second. Something shifted between breakfast and now. Whatever it is, it’s clear I’ve disappointed her somehow.
The rest of the conversation resumes in fragments. Someone changes the subject to tomorrow’s weather. Julian asks Fred about the timing of the cars. Miranda starts teasing the twins again.
I hear almost none of it.
All I can see is the way Sky interacts with everyone except me.
What the hell happened?
