“Oh—” he said, as though a thought had occurred to him casually, and turned slightly back toward the conference room they had left. His voice carried just far enough into the corridor to reach anyone listening. “Ethan.”
A beat of silence from behind the closed door.
Then, muffled but audible, the sound of movement—Ethan’s chair, his footsteps, the door opening a crack.
Alexander did not look back fully. He spoke with the mild, informational tone of a man mentioning something he nearly forgot.
“The building you work in.” He paused. “The address your company has on its letterhead. The office where you’re meeting your investors next week.” Another pause, shorter. “That building belongs to me as well.”
The elevator arrived with a soft chime. The doors opened.
Alexander stepped aside to let Emily enter first, because that was what he always did, and she stepped in and turned to face the corridor, and she saw Ethan in the conference room doorway—jacket slightly disheveled now, the careful assembly of him coming undone at the edges—and she felt nothing for him that was not ordinary human compassion. The compassion you feel for anyone you watch lose something they thought was permanent.