I finish the rest of dinner with Mr. Sutton pretending I am not coming apart at the seams, pretending I am not being silently eviscerated across the room by a man who once swore he would never hurt me and is now apparently auditioning for the role of Judge, Jury, and Executioner in the Lena Hale Is Trash courtroom in his head. I smile at all the right moments, nod in the appropriate places, and toss in a polite, "Really? That must have been terrifying," even though I barely register half the words leaving this elderly man's mouth. My attention keeps snapping back to the way Adrian looked at me in the lobby, like I had crawled out of a gutter and offered to mop the marble with my hair.
Mr. Sutton could be telling me about his hedge fund years or confessing that he was once a jewel thief and I would not know the difference. All I hear is the blood pounding in my ears and the constant, nauseating hum of awareness that Adrian Vale is somewhere in this hotel, waiting like a debt collector with a personal vendetta. Mr. Sutton moves from yacht explosions to stories about the neatly framed tragedies of his life, tapping his teaspoon against his teacup as if every dead wife is a bullet point he has memorized. Every clink of silver against porcelain feels like another nail being driven into whatever self respect I had left when I walked in here.
"Three wives," he says cheerfully, as if that number is not horrifying. "Lovely women. All gone far too soon."
I blink and offer the appropriate sympathetic sound because that is my job tonight. Professional sympathy. Premium empathy. Hire by the hour warmth that looks good in a cocktail dress and laughs on cue. I let my face soften into the practiced expression, the gentle tilt of my head and the faint furrow between my brows that signals concern, while my soul quietly bleeds out beneath the tablecloth.
Forty five dollars worth of mascara and exactly zero personal dignity sit on my face while I murmur, "I am so sorry," and he nods as if I have delivered the correct line in a play he has seen too many times to count. "Yes, well. Life happens fast. Would you like soufflé? The raspberry here is divine."
Divine, apparently, is the word for dessert eaten while your pride dies in public. Calories hardly matter when your dignity is already a chalk outline on the floor and your ex is somewhere nearby counting the ways you have cheapened yourself.
I accept the soufflé and pretend it is the most compelling thing I have ever tasted, fluffy and tart and melting on my tongue, while bracing myself for Adrian's shadow to fall across the table like an omen. I do not look for him. I refuse to look for him. That does not stop my mind from inventing him behind a marble pillar, watching, waiting, sharpening knives with his imagination, composing whatever sadistic epilogue he has decided I deserve.
I can feel the weight of his stare even without lifting my eyes, like a laser sight pressed between my shoulder blades. I hate that my body still reacts to the idea of him with this sick blend of dread and something that feels dangerously like memory.
Or maybe he is not watching at all. Maybe he left the restaurant. Maybe he got bored. Maybe he already got what he needed, which was to see me accept an envelope like a woman trading pieces of her soul at a pawnshop while he mentally tallied the price per humiliation. In his head, I am sure the numbers looked clean and reasonable. Fifteen thousand imagined from the old man. Twenty more added by himself like seasoning. A tidy twenty five thousand total for the girl he decided sold him out eight years ago.
I do not dare check if he is still there. If I see his table empty, it will hurt one way. If I see him still watching, it will hurt another. I cannot afford either version.
Instead, I laugh at Mr. Sutton's jokes and lean forward as if I am captivated by stories about stock crashes from the eighties. I nod like my life depends on it, because in a way it does. Rent. Bills. Debt. Survival. All the glamorous bullet points of a life gone sideways. Every time Mr. Sutton mentions a number or a percentage, my brain overlays my father's debt on top of it like a watermark. Five hundred thousand. Red. Blinking. Hungry.
It gnaws at the edges of every decision until morality and necessity blur into something I barely recognize.
At exactly ten o'clock, as if following a script, Mr. Sutton nods off mid sentence. His head droops toward his teacup like a wilted rose, and after one blink too many his words dissolve into a soft, sleepy mumble. Relief hits me so hard my fingers curl into my lap to keep them from shaking.
Moments later, his driver appears with the efficiency of someone who has done this countless times. Tall. Polite. Wearing a perfectly pressed suit. Pushing an empty wheelchair that probably costs more than my monthly rent. The orderliness is almost comforting. At least someone in this building understands their role and performs it without bleeding all over the place.
"Evening, Miss Hale," he says warmly, with just enough professionalism to make me feel like a normal human being instead of tonight's rented emotional support animal. "I will take him from here."
He lifts Mr. Sutton with practiced gentleness, settles him into the chair with genuine care, and turns back to me like we are coworkers packing up a set after the show.
Then comes the envelope, thin and light and disposable, the kind of money wealthy men hand out the way normal people hand out compliments. "From Mr. Sutton," the driver says.
I open it and see the number clearly.
One thousand dollars.
Not anything close to the amount Adrian gave me with that smug, soul breaking smile of his, but still enough to matter. A thousand dollars is groceries and electricity and a week or two of not drowning.
"Thank you," I murmur, my voice smaller than I would like. It is the only money tonight that is actually mine. Not filtered through agency fees. Not warped by Adrian's imagination. Just a tired old man's way of saying you tried, kid, have a little air before you go back under.
Mia's agency already took their pound of flesh before I ever stepped into this dress. Mr. Sutton's official payment vanished into their accounts hours ago. The one thousand in my hand is a tip, pure and simple.
Meanwhile, Adrian must have decided I would be pocketing money for other services tonight. That conclusion came from nothing but the image he saw before he stormed out. Me at a table with an old man, smiling on command. He built the rest himself. He always does. Now he has stacked twenty thousand of his own money on top of that fantasy, as if humiliation can be itemized, taxed, and written off.
The driver nods and wheels Mr. Sutton down the hall, and they disappear like a curtain closing on a play I was never meant to be in. I watch them go and let my shoulders sag for the first time all evening. I exhale slowly, carefully, trying not to let the relief show.
For a brief moment, I allow myself to believe this might be the end of it.
It is not.