“There must be a misunderstanding,” I said.
He pointed discreetly toward the elevators.
“Just wait. Look… there she is.”
I turned.
And then I saw her.
She came out of the elevator walking with the kind of confidence that makes it seem the floor was polished just for her arrival. Early forties, maybe younger. Perfect hair. Navy sheath dress. Heels that made almost no sound, because women like that don’t walk into a room—they claim it. She carried a folder tucked under her arm and wore the unmistakable expression of someone who belonged there. Not a guest. Not an outsider. Someone at home.
“Morning, Mr. Reed,” she said to the guard.
“Morning, Mrs. Hale,” he answered casually. “Heading out to lunch?”
“Yes. If Thomas asks, I’ll be back by two.”
Thomas.
My Thomas.
My husband.
The word broke inside me.
She passed right by me without even glancing in my direction. Not because she was insulting me. Worse. Because I was beneath notice. I might as well have been a plant, a chair, a shadow at the edge of the lobby.
I felt the chocolates slipping in my hands.
“Who is she?” I asked, and my voice sounded far away, as though it belonged to someone standing on the other side of a wall.