I felt the urge to accuse him of not fighting hard enough for me. The thought was so shameful that I almost laughed at its absurdity. I was standing with another man's perfume on my skin, wearing the earrings Ethan had given me, after publicly announcing that he had never made me feel alive. And I was tempted to blame him for having finally believed what I was telling him.
Someone pushed through the group of onlookers and spoke to a bartender, gesturing toward a small camera mounted on a handheld stabilizer. The operator, a young man in a dark shirt, stopped filming and looked away. I had assumed he was another guest making social-media content. Later, records would show he had been booked for private promotional footage associated with the evening's so-called business meeting. He never published the recording, but the fact that he had been waiting there would matter.
A floor manager approached and asked whether everything was all right. His question was tentative, the voice of someone who would prefer not to interrupt a private argument but had begun to worry about his other customers. Ryan immediately told him my husband was harassing us. Ethan said he was leaving and that no intervention was necessary. I opened my mouth, then closed it, uncertain whose version I could bear to endorse.
"Claire," the manager asked, "are you comfortable here?"
I looked at Ryan. He was watching me with the expression I'd once found thrilling, the expression that said every second was a test I had to pass. For months I had adjusted my words to keep that look approving. Now I understood how exhausting the performance had become.
"I want him to leave me alone," I said, indicating Ryan.
He stared at me. "Are you serious?"
"Yes."
"You just told your husband you wanted me."
"I know what I said. I'm telling you what I want now."
The floor manager moved between us without touching anyone. Ryan backed away, muttering that I was letting Ethan manipulate me, then demanded I return the key to a room he had supposedly reserved for us. I told him I didn't have it. His face changed when Ethan lifted the black card he'd brought from the morning meeting, and he seemed to realize that somebody had spoken to my husband before the night's performance began.
"Sofia," Ryan said, almost to himself. "Of course."
"Don't contact her," Ethan replied. "Your attorney can speak to mine."
That wasn't a threat. It was a boundary, and Ryan heard it as one. He turned, walked rapidly toward the elevator corridor, and disappeared while half the people who had watched his grand entrance stared after him. I expected a surge of triumph at seeing him leave. What I felt instead was the terrible absence of the person I'd been using to justify my own choices.