The office was bland in the expensive way—cream walls, abstract art, filtered water in glass bottles. Somewhere down the hall, a copy machine beeped. Life reduced to signatures.
“You first,” I said.
He laughed once, tired and brittle. “Becca left.”
“I know.”
That had happened less than a week after the funeral. Apparently discovering your boyfriend’s wealth belongs to his wife’s family can take the shine off a romance. A mutual acquaintance reported that Becca cleaned out the desk at the firm, blocked his number, and transferred to a startup in Austin. I had not sent flowers.
“She didn’t know,” he said.
“No,” I agreed. “Neither did I.”
He looked down at his hands. “I messed up.”
There it was again—the small language. The coward’s phrasing. As if “messed up” covered infidelity, manipulation, theft, and strategic opportunism around my dying father.
“I’m not going to help you feel better about what you did,” I said.
“That’s not what I’m asking.”
“What are you asking?”
He met my eyes then, and for the first time I saw something close to stripped honesty. Not noble honesty. Not redemptive honesty. Just a man staring at the wreckage he caused and realizing charm had finally run out.