Chapter 4

NORA

Dane did not sit.

He lowered his glass and tilted his head toward Gideon, as if he were considering a polite request. "I will, in a moment. I have one more thing to say, and then I will gladly sit."

Gideon said nothing. He turned back to Mr. Garner.

That was all the permission Dane needed.

A dozen guests had drifted in around him by now, men in dark suits with drinks in their hands, smiling like people waiting for a show to start. I took the chair in the corner and tried to become part of the wall.

"I will not repeat what everyone already knows," Dane said, loud enough to carry across the room. "I only want to ask the Hale family for one small gesture. Something to show respect for my family's loss."

"What did you have in mind?" a man asked, clearly enjoying it.

Dane smiled. "The chowder."

A waiter was already wheeling in a silver tureen. Fish stew, thick and steaming, the club's old harbor recipe. The smell hit me from ten feet away, salt and oil and boiled fish, and my stomach rolled.

"Nora will serve every guest at this table, one bowl at a time," Dane said. "And she will say to each of them, 'I am sorry for the life my father took.'"

The words struck me like a hand across the face.

I looked at Gideon. I begged him with my eyes to say something. Anything.

He met my gaze for a long moment. Then he looked away.

"It is a reasonable request," he said quietly. "It would help the merger if you cooperated."

My heart broke.

"Gideon..."

"This is important, Nora. Do not make a scene."

All eyes were on me. Some curious, some cruel. Dane stood there holding out a ladle, smiling.

I could not refuse. If I refused, the merger might fail, and if the merger failed, Gideon would end the contract, and if the contract ended, my father's care would end with it.

And I could not tell him I was carrying his child, and that the smell of fish was making the room spin.

I took the ladle.

My legs felt like water as I stood. The first bowl shook in my hands. I carried it to Mr. Garner, who took it without looking at me.

"Louder," Dane called. "And say it properly."

The words stuck in my throat.

"I am sorry for the life my father took."

"Again, for each guest."

I went around the table. I stooped, I ladled, I served. At every chair I said the same sentence. My voice cracked at the fourth bowl, and again at the sixth. People pulled out their phones. A woman at the end of the table hid a smile behind her napkin.

My left knee began to burn. It had never healed right since the day I was shoved into the fountain. I had learned to walk on it without letting anyone see.

The steam rose in my face. I breathed through my mouth. Please, little one. Just a few more.

When I reached the last guest, Dane appeared at my shoulder.

"One more thing," he said, soft enough that only I could hear. "Your father cost me my brother. You are the same. A stain that needs scrubbing out."

Then louder, for the whole room: "Now thank Gideon for the chance to make amends."

I turned to my husband. He was watching me now, his gray eyes empty.

"Thank you, Gideon."

"Say it so we can hear it."

"Thank you, Gideon." My voice broke. "For giving me this chance."

Someone clapped. Then another. Soon the whole room was applauding, as if I had finished a performance.

I put the ladle down. The room began to tilt. The smell of fish rose again, thick and warm, and my vision narrowed to a gray tunnel.

Not now. Please, not now.

My knee buckled.

I fell forward. The edge of the table caught my forehead with a crack, and I went down onto the polished floor.

For a moment I lay there. The pain was bright and sharp. Voices swirled above me, muffled and far away.

Someone laughed.

Get up. Do not let them see.

But my body would not listen. I stared at the dark wood grain of the floor while the dinner carried on above me. Gideon's voice, still talking numbers. Dane's laugh. The clink of glasses.

Nobody came.

After what felt like forever, I pushed up onto my hands and knees, then onto my feet. Warm blood ran down my temple and into my eyebrow. I touched it and looked at my fingers.

I walked out. No one stopped me. No one even looked.

The hallway was empty. I leaned against the wall and pressed my palm to my forehead, trying to breathe.

Did that just happen?

The door opened behind me. Gideon.

For one foolish second, I thought he had come to see if I was hurt.

"Are you finished making a scene?"

The words hurt more than the floor.

"I felt..."

"I saw." He walked past me toward the elevator. "We are leaving."

I followed him on trembling legs, blood still dripping from my chin.

In the car park, he stopped beside his car without opening the door for me.

"What did your mother call to tell you?" His voice was sharp.

"Only that Camilla is back from Vienna."

"Listen to me." He stepped closer. "Camilla has an old injury in her left wrist. It still hurts her when she plays. If she suffers any stress or discomfort because of you, I will make sure you regret it. Do you understand?"

He remembered every detail of her pain. He knew which wrist, and which season of the year it ached.

He had never once asked about mine.

"I understand."

"Good." He unlocked the car. "Find your own way home. I have somewhere to be."

"Gideon, please..."

"Call a cab." He got in. "And clean yourself up before you come to the house. You look pathetic."

He drove away and left me standing alone in the empty garage.

My forehead was bleeding. My knee screamed. The baby was a small, silent weight in my belly.

I took out my phone. The app showed no cars within miles.

Of course.

I started walking.