Sloane sat on the edge of the bed and nodded toward my phone. “Was that him?”
“Twice.”
“Did you answer?”
“No.”
“Good.”
The simplicity of it almost undid me. Good. Not Are you sure? Not Maybe you should talk to him. Not Marriage is complicated. Just good, like my refusal to keep stepping into the same trap was not only acceptable but overdue.
“He says I’m putting both of us in an impossible position,” I said.
Sloane snorted. “That man built the impossible position, furnished it, and let his mistress redecorate. He can’t complain now that you’ve stopped paying the rent.”
I looked at her.
“What? Too much?”
“No. Annoyingly accurate.”
“I contain multitudes.”
I wrapped both hands around the coffee mug. The heat pressed into my palms, steady and specific. “I don’t know what the gala is going to be now.”
“What do you mean?”
“The anniversary gala. It was supposed to be a celebration of seven years of Crestline. Callum’s been planning it for months. Laura’s been planning it for months. I was barely included. Mostly logistics. Guest list corrections. Client preferences. Seating notes.” I looked down at the legal pad. “But now I think they’re going to use it.”
“For what?”
“To rewrite the company in public.” The words came out quieter than I meant them to. “To make Laura the future. To make me the past. Or worse, to make me support. A nice little mention in the speech. Thank you to my wife for believing in me. Thank you to Holland for standing beside me. Thank you for being useful, invisible, and quiet.”
Sloane’s face changed. It wasn’t dramatic. She went still, the way a room goes quiet when someone picks up a weapon.
“Have you seen the seating chart?” she asked.
“Not yet.”
“Can you get it?”
“Probably. David might have a copy. Or someone in planning.”
“Get it.”
I met her gaze. “You think it matters?”
“I think everything matters now.” She tapped the legal pad with one finger. “If they’ve put you somewhere that separates you from the clients who know your work, you need to know that. If they’ve placed Laura beside Callum and the legacy clients, you need to know that. If they’re planning to control who gets access to you before anyone gives a speech, you need it before you walk into that room.”
Access.
The word landed like a misplaced load, a dead weight settling in the center of my chest.
“I don’t even know what I own,” I admitted.
Sloane’s expression softened. “Then that’s where you start.”
“I know about the trust money. I have the bank records somewhere. The founding documents too, I think.”
