“I’m delivering luggage,” I replied. “Scenes are optional.”
She recoiled slightly. “He told me you were separated.”
There it was—the script. The standard lie, tidy and convenient. As if divorce were a polite hallway already in progress instead of a wall you smash through.
I leaned in just enough for only her to hear. “He wore his wedding ring to dinner with you.”
Her eyes widened, then narrowed. “How do you—”
“I know everything,” I said, straightening. “The calendar invites. The messages. The voice notes. The little heart emojis. The part where he says he can’t stop thinking about you and then comes home and asks me whether I want Thai or Italian.”
A murmur rippled through the lobby. Someone whispered, “Oh my God,” like they were watching a show unfold.
Lila’s hands clenched. “This is harassment.”
I let out a short laugh. “Harassment is what he did—using his position, your inexperience, and the thrill of secrecy.”
One of her coworkers shifted awkwardly. Good. Let them sit with it. Let them remember this the next time they praised a powerful man for being “charming.”
The elevator chimed. The doors opened.