“Yes,” you say. “Claire. I’m at the executive café. Your wife just threw coffee on me in front of half the lobby.”
Another pause.
Then, clipped and lethal, “Stay there.”
You end the call.
Madison stares at you as if you just produced a snake out of your handbag.
The confidence is not entirely gone yet. Women like her do not surrender quickly because surrender would require admitting that the persona they built out of entitlement and lip gloss was always mostly cardboard. But fear has entered the room now, and fear does terrible things to polish.
She laughs first.
It is the wrong laugh. Too high. Too short. The kind of laugh people use when the ground under them begins to wobble and they hope volume will imitate balance.
“You are insane,” she says. “You don’t know my husband.”
You tilt your head slightly.
