Nothing else.
The telephone rang.
Camden.
I answered after four rings.
“Where are you?” he demanded.
I surveyed the apartment.
“Home.”
“You left without speaking to me.”
“You fired me in front of four hundred people.”
“This isn’t the time for dramatics.”
I smiled despite myself.
“Of course not.”
A pause.
Then he softened his voice.
That troubled me more.
“Elena, listen to me. Tonight got out of control.”
“You planned tonight.”
“I planned a necessary personnel decision. I didn’t know August was going to turn it into theater.”
I shut my eyes.
Camden could stand beneath chandeliers with a microphone and destroy his wife publicly, then call someone else’s response theater.
“How long have you been sleeping with Sloane?”
A pause.
Not astonishment.
A pause.
That answered me more clearly than any explanation Camden could have invented in that moment.
“Elena—”
“How long?”
“This has nothing to do with the company.”
