Page 10 of Trail of Betrayal
“Good answer,” I say, and drink. The wine tastes expensive and heavy, like guilt aged in oak.
It’s a full two minutes before Elise arrives—by design. Never arrive as a pair. She’s in slate blue, the kind of color that photographs well but doesn’t compete. Her perfume is violet and static. When she slides into the booth, the air shifts to accommodate her.
We exchange the pleasantries, the little corporate symphonies of success and sarcasm. The waiters set amuse-bouches on marble slabs—tiny towers of symmetry so perfect it makes my palms itch. The butter knife catches the overhead light; even the silver feels judgmental.
The fourth seat stays empty for fifteen minutes. Lawrence checks his watch. Twice. The crystal catches the reflection of the chandelier—fractured, restless.
Isabella arrives in a cream silk blouse and a skirt the color of old money. She’s almost breathless, but not the kind that saysrushed; more the kind that saysI’ve calculated exactly how late I can be without losing status. She pauses at the edge of the table, composing herself in a single exhale, then steps forward with a smile.
“Sorry to keep you,” she says, directing the apology at me, not Lawrence. “There was a… thing with the agency.”
“Fashionably late is still late,” Elise deadpans. “But I’ll allow it. I’m Elise—college friend, coworker, and resident strategy nerd in marketing.”
Isabella takes the offered hand, and they do a little social calculus in the pressure of their grip. I watch the exchange and note two women who’ve survived more than they’ve ever admitted, and both are determined not to blink first.
Lawrence stands again, as if etiquette could cover the fact that his hands are now visibly shaking. He makes a point of introducing Isabella as “a colleague from the Thompson account.” She holds his gaze for half a beat, then turns to me.
“We’ve emailed,” she says, smile pinned and perfect.
“We have,” I reply, letting the silence drag a moment too long. “But only about work. Tonight, I want to talk about literally anything else.” I gesture to the menus, which appear in front of us as if by magic. “Let’s pretend we’re all friends.”
She laughs just a little too loud and sits. Meanwhile, Lawrence stares at the tablecloth.
The waiter arrives, posture so upright it looks almost painful. “Would you like to see the wine list?”
Lawrence starts to answer, but I interrupt. “Actually, I’d love a bottle of the ’17 Pomerol. You remember that one, right, Lawrence? The one from our first date.”
He flinches, barely perceptible, but there, and forces a smile.
“The Pomerol,” he repeats. “Excellent choice.”
The waiter nods and vanishes.
Isabella’s fingers drum against her water glass. “That’s an amazing vintage,” she says, then glances at Lawrence, searching for a cue.
He gives her nothing.
Elise breaks the tension with a practiced pivot. “So, Isabella, how long have you been at Altus?”
Isabella tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, all business. “Almost three years. Came over from Sable & Co. when they closed the New York office. It’s been an adventure.”
“You’re a rising star,” I say, letting just enough warmth leak into my voice to make it ambiguous. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
She smiles again, this time more genuine, but her eyes flick to Lawrence, then quickly away. “Lawrence is a great mentor.”
I let that hang in the air before turning to him. “You never told me you were mentoring.” I emphasize the word, see if he’ll break.
He shrugs, too quickly. “We’re all supposed to, right?”
Elise sips her drink. “Some are more hands-on than others.” She says it blandly, but the look she shoots me says she knows exactly where this is going.
Isabella demurs, “He’s been nothing but professional.” Her tone is flat, almost rehearsed. I wonder if she practiced it in the Uber over.
The wine arrives. The sommelier decants it with a flourish, pouring a taste into my glass. I let the ritual play out, then swirl and sip, holding Lawrence’s gaze.
“Still as good as I remember,” I say. “Try it, Isabella.”
She does, and for a moment, the table is united in the universal language of drinking to avoid conversation.
