On the morning of the reunion, Chicago woke cold and bright. One of those cutting November Saturdays when the sky looks hard enough to crack and every tree seems ashamed of having trusted spring.
Carissa went to the salon.
Not because she needed to look beautiful for him.
Because beauty had been used against her for too long, and she had decided she would wear her version of it like a verdict.
Her hair was smoothed into soft dark waves that made her cheekbones look sharper. Her makeup was understated but precise. She chose a black silk dress with a high neckline and long sleeves, elegant in a way that suggested money without pleading for notice. The red lipstick came last. She stood in front of the mirror at home, fastening diamond studs she had bought herself after winning a major arbitration three years earlier, and watched her own face settle into something she had not seen in a long time.
Not hardness.
Authority.
Downstairs, Damen was already dressed.
Navy suit.
White shirt.
Tie slightly loosened because he imagined that made him look relaxed and successful.
He stared when she entered the room.