“No. Over misconduct. Misrepresentation. Harassment. And for telling people you’re my wife.”
Now she finally looks at me properly.
And realizes the truth.
I’m not a stranger here.
I’m part of this place.
She made the mistake of thinking proximity mattered more than permanence.
It doesn’t.
She leaves under everyone’s gaze.
The room slowly comes back to life.
I pick up my ruined documents.
“Emily,” Ryan says.
“Not here.”
“We need to talk.”
“Do we?”
“Yes.”
I glance at my blouse. “I need to change. I have a donor meeting.”
“I’ll postpone it.”
“No.”
The answer surprises both of us.
“I’ll handle it.”
He looks at me, something like regret in his eyes. “Please.”
I pause. “Ten minutes.”
Later, in the conference room, he says, “I’m sorry.”
I ask, “For what?”
He struggles.
Finally: “For letting something stupid turn into something humiliating.”
Closer.
Still not enough.
I question him—did he know, did he allow it, why didn’t he stop it?
His answers reveal the truth.
Not cruelty.
Avoidance.
He let things happen because it was easier.
“I used to think your worst flaw was ambition,” I tell him. “It’s not. It’s avoidance.”
That silences him.
When he asks if I hate him, I answer honestly.
“No. I just see you clearly now.”