Page 9 of Trail of Betrayal
"Still deciding," I say. "Someplace nice, but not stuffy. You have a preference?"
She shakes her head, just a touch too fast. "No, I’m… whatever works. Honestly, I have a ton of deliverables this weekend, but I can make it work. If you really want me there."
"I do," I say. "I’m fascinated by you, Isabella. You always seem so composed. I’d kill for your energy." The compliment is both genuine and barbed; I see her parse it, then file it undersocial due diligence.
She takes a breath, sets the pen down, and then, as if catching herself in the mirror, starts rearranging the clutter on the side of the table, lining up sample packets, flipping the cover on her planner closed, straightening a stack of business cards. It’s subtle, but textbook self-soothing. "So, Friday at seven?"
"Seven," I confirm, and stand. She stands too, a beat late, and we’re nose-to-nose in the little glass cage. Her perfume is something expensive and deliberately androgynous, spice, citrus, nothing sweet.
I make a point of brushing her shoulder as I step past, not quite an accident. She flinches, infinitesimal, but I catch it.
Interesting.
After work, I kick off my heels at the door, only to line them up neatly against the wall. I set my phone on the island, open the reservation app, and scroll through the top five restaurants in the city. Lumière is the obvious choice: newly Michelin-starred, with a waiting list so smug it doubles as a social filter. Luckily for me, I have connections. I want a table where every guest can see us, where every passing server can register our performance. It takes exactly two minutes to secure a four-top for Friday at seven.
The confirmation hits my inbox with a cheery chime. I read it twice, memorizing the details as if the email might auto-delete. I can almost see the scene: Elise to my left, Isabella directly across, Lawrence trapped at the end with nowhere to escape. The thought makes me smile, a real, involuntary twitch at the corner of my mouth.
I pour myself a glass of Sancerre and drink it at the window, one hip pressed against the cold frame. I go through the steps of preparation in my head, but it’s not nerves.
First: wardrobe. I’ll allow myself a little drama, a red dress I’ve worn only once, so sharp it might leave a mark on anyone who gets too close. I pull it from the hanger, hold it to the light, and picture how it will look under Lumière’s photogenic glare. I choose shoes to match, nothing sensible, just enough heel to put me slightly above Isabella for the evening.
Second: conversation. I practice the lines aloud in the bathroom, the acoustics turning every phrase to marble. “How are you finding Westfield?” “You and Lawrence make such a great team.” “Did you know he’s allergic to shellfish?” Every word is bait; every smile, a lure. I adjust my tone until it lands somewhere between warm and lethal.
Third: composure. I check my reflection in the mirror above the vanity, eyes clear, posture straight, no trace of fatigue or anger. I want them to remember this unbreakable version of me.
Next, I run through possible outcomes: public blowup, private confession, awkward silence stretching the length of a tasting menu. I’m ready for all of them.
The wine is gone before I realize it, and my apartment is so quiet I can hear my own heart. I like the sound, it’s steady, unsentimental.
I change into the red dress, just to see. The fabric hugs every edge of me, the color so saturated it threatens to overtake the room. In the mirror, I don’t see vengeance or desperation. I see someone who has decided, once and for all, never to be blindsided again.
Once I’m done, I remove the dress and fold it over a velvet hanger before placing it at the front of the closet. I rinse the wine glass, dry it, and return it to the cart, ready for tomorrow.
The city outside is nothing but points of light now. There’s a kind of comfort in knowing exactly what comes next.
Chapter 5
It’s Friday before I know it.
Lumière is the kind of restaurant where every course feels like a referendum on your self-worth. The air hums faintly with soft jazz and chilled perfume, a soundscape engineered for expensive restraint. Crystal stemware glints like cut ice, and the lighting is low enough to flatter insecurity. The waitstaff move in perfect choreography, cheekbones carved by spotlight, their shoes whispering across polished stone. Even the air smells curated—truffle, butter, and fear of judgment.
I step inside and, as planned, every head turns. My dress is a sheath of red so sharp it could wound, and the room reacts in micro-shocks. Forks still. Champagne bubbles catch the light mid-rise. Two women in matching Loro Piana whisper behind upturned menus. A table of men in Patagonia vests pause long enough to take measure.
The maître d’ is young and French, his accent smooth until it nearly slips. “Caldwell party, right this way.”
I follow, leaving behind a wake of perfume and faint electricity.
The dining room is full but hushed, conversations pitched in that moneyed register—low, clipped, like a secret that costs too much to tell. Silverware glints. Glassware sings faintly when set down. It feels like walking into a church built for appetite.
Lawrence is already at the table, framed by candlelight and reflective glass. He’s facing the entrance, which means he’s seen every step of my approach. His tie is loose, the good watch flashing under the recessed lighting, and his face—normally calm—creases in that specific way I know means anxious. There’s an empty glass in front of him, a decanter half full, a bead of condensation sliding down its side. He stands when I reach him, knocking the napkin into his lap.
I lean in and brush his cheek with mine. His aftershave is too sharp, the kind that tries to smell like confidence.
“You’re early,” I say, smoothing my skirt before sitting. The seat’s leather is cool through the fabric.
He smiles, tight. “Didn’t want to risk you waiting.”
He pours the wine, hands trembling just enough to ripple the glass. “You look…” He searches. “Amazing.”
