Page 2 of Trail of Betrayal
“Deadlines. Disappointing people. The usual.”
He lifts his glass. “You’re not disappointing anyone tonight.”
We toast. For a moment, it feels easy again. He tells a story about a campaign gone wrong—Savor the Flawor—and we laugh until our eyes water.
When the server clears the plates, Lawrence orders dessert for sharing without asking, like it’s understood.
“You’re a mystery, Veronica Caldwell,” he says once the server leaves.
“Oh, please. I’m the most predictable person in this place.”
He shakes his head. “No. You just know how to camouflage. That’s different.”
“Is that a compliment?”
He leans in. “An observation. But also, yeah, a compliment.”
His phone buzzes once on the table. He ignores it, but the flicker in his jaw gives him away. I notice, because noticing is my job. Attention is currency, and I’ve made a living off spending it wisely.
It buzzes again. This time he mutters “sorry” and silences it, face down. The gesture is casual, practiced. Too practiced.
“So,” I say, swirling my wine, “are you really this put together, or do you just tell better stories than everyone else?”
He glances at the ceiling like the answer might be there. “I think I’m just good at covering the cracks.”
The phone hums again, persistent. His eyes dart down, then away. “Sorry,” he says again, softer. “I’m all yours.”
I wonder if that’s ever been true.
He keeps talking—about impossible clients, viral failures, friends abroad—but I’m watching the phone now, tracking his micro-reactions the way I’d track metrics after a campaignlaunch. Every flicker means something if you care enough to measure.
When it buzzes again mid-sentence, he reads the message. His face stays calm, but his shoulders tighten.
“I like a man who multitasks,” I say lightly, though my pulse says otherwise.
He smiles, an apology disguised as charm.
“It’s just work,” he offers.
“Isn’t it always?”
We sit in the swell of restaurant noise—laughter, glass, silver on china. He pays, and when he stands, the movement feels abrupt, like surfacing too fast.
Before we can leave, the phone rings. He snatches it up, then sets it down again with more force than necessary.
“Persistent,” I tease. “That the sleep app checking on you?”
He doesn’t laugh. “Probably just my assistant.”
He’s lying.
“I’ve got to run,” he says, voice low. Before I can respond, he’s already backing away, hands raised in apology. “I’m so sorry. It’s getting late anyway, and we both have work in the morning.” His eyebrow lifts, waiting for my agreement, but all I feel is the whiplash between the man who’d leaned in close across the table and this stranger preparing his exit. The restaurant noise rises around us, clattering plates, laughter, glasses clinking, as his attention, which had felt so complete, dissolves into nothing.
While he walks away, I sit back down, my pulse thrumming. I twist the band of my watch between my thumb and forefinger, a nervous tic whenever I’m on the brink of something I can’t control. My breath catches, half hope, half dread.
He’s at the door, phone pressed to his ear. Through the window, I see him straightening his coat, settling into the streetlight’s glow. He laughs, soft, relieved, into the receiver. Thecaller says something on the other end, and his smile widens, bright enough to light the pavement.
I want to call him back, demand what this means, but my hand won’t move. Instead, I watch him disappear into the night, his silhouette swallowed by the city’s hush. The windowpane fogs under my fingertips as I press my palm to it, remembering the warmth of his hand on mine, the promise I thought I heard.
