Exactly seven minutes later, Brandon’s phone buzzed on the white tablecloth.
He glanced at the screen.
And all the color drained from his face.
Seven minutes isn’t long—until you’re watching someone realize the reality they built is collapsing in real time.
Brandon picked up his phone, frowned at the screen, and straightened in his chair so abruptly his bourbon glass tipped over. A few drops splashed across the table. He didn’t notice. His expression shifted in stages—annoyance first, then confusion, then something far more raw. Panic.
Michelle leaned toward him. “Everything okay?”
Brandon locked the screen too quickly. “Yeah. Work.”
I had been married to him for eight years. I knew every version of his face: the polished conference-room face, the flirtatious dinner-party face, the irritated private face he reserved for me, the furious face he wore only when he thought no one else was watching. The face in front of me now was new. It was the face of a man realizing he was no longer in control.
Derek laughed. “At nine at night? Must be serious.”
Brandon forced a smile. “Client issue.”
