Instead, when she explained that the warehouse was no longer available, Daniel put down his fork.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“The building is out?”
“Greg is being dramatic.”
“Laura.”
“He'll sign.”
Daniel stared at her.
“That building is most of the collateral support.”
“He always signs.”
“You told me this was handled.”
“It is.”
“No, it isn't.”
Laura told me that was the first time she heard irritation in his voice directed at her.
Not passion.
Not confidence.
Calculation.
“You said Gregory wasn't important to the business,” she said.
Daniel's answer stayed with her.
“I said he wasn't important to the vision. That's different. The money is the money.”
She stared at him.
“The vision is us.”
Daniel looked toward the waiter.
“The vision needs financing.”
Laura had spent months telling herself Daniel saw her in a way I no longer did.
Maybe he had.
But when the financial architecture changed, so did his posture.
He checked his watch.
Said he had a one o'clock call.
Paid the bill.
Left.
At 4:10 that afternoon, a process server walked through the Laurel Row showroom.
Past the velvet sofa from the magazine photographs.
Past the sample wall.
Past the receptionist.
“Laura Hayes?”
She signed for the envelope.
Opened it standing.
Read the first lines twice.
By six, I was back in Michael's conference room.
He had told me to stay nearby after service.
Not because he expected violence.
Because the first hours after divorce papers arrive are when people make bad decisions.