Chapter 4
By 7:30 PM, the private dining room at the Horizon Hotel was quiet, save for the soft clinking of water glasses. Seraphina sat at the head of a long table with three editors from Vanguard Publishing, going over final page proofs for her upcoming novel reissue.
The heavy oak doors swung open.
Dashiell walked in. His tie was undone, his collar open, his face flushed.
He walked straight to her table, completely ignoring the other three people sitting there.
"Why didn't you pick him up?" Dashiell asked, his voice low and tight. "He waited for an hour because Camilla was delayed across town."
Seraphina took a sip of her water. "Did Camilla pick him up?"
"That's not—"
"Then you had someone."
Dashiell's jaw worked. "Why are you making this harder than it has to be? The house schedule is entirely off."
"The house is fine, Dashiell," Seraphina said, her tone level. "Camilla is there. She has the groceries. She has the school forms. She packed his inhaler."
Dashiell blinked. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Footsteps sounded on the parquet floor behind him.
Griffin Ashford walked into the room, a glass of scotch in his hand. He stopped two feet from the table, his shadow falling over Dashiell.
"You're making a scene, Whitmore."
Dashiell snapped his head around. "This is private, Griffin. She's my wife."
Griffin looked at Dashiell. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't move closer.
He took a slow drink of his scotch, let the quiet stretch for three long seconds, and looked Dashiell in the eye.
"Who packed his inhaler this morning?"
Dashiell stared at him. His throat worked once, but he didn't say a word.
Griffin set his glass on a passing waiter's tray. He turned to Seraphina, his expression thoughtful. "Your publisher mentioned you're taking back control of your distribution rights. Smart move. You should have reclaimed your work years ago."
He paused, his voice dropping slightly. "Nine years is a long time to play dead, Seraphina. Don't take five more to wake up."
He walked out into the corridor.
Seraphina picked up her leather clutch from the table, stood up, and walked past Dashiell toward the door.
The heavy wood closed softly behind her.