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I was hungry. I am hungry.

Before I can think about what to do next, servers arrive with the next course. It’s a medium-rare pan-seared filet mignon. Beside it is a small tower of potatoes and asparagus tied with a thin strip of bacon in a puddle of brown sauce.

I stare at the filet.

So does Mr. Stanley.

So does Nathaniel.

For the first time all night, the two men appear to agree on something.

Meat.

I look from one man to the other.

The tension hasn’t vanished.

Not really.

I can still feel Nathaniel’s knee brushing mine, and Mr. Stanley’s insult still burns.

But I know one thing.

I’m eating every last morsel of this course, no matter what Stanley says.

18

NATHANIEL

I’m seeing red.

It pulses at the edges of my vision as Stanley speaks to Ella like she’s an object for his amusement. For his entertainment.

The strange thing is that I’ve heard worse. Hell, I’ve said worse.

Stanley talks to Ella the way men like him talk to everyone they consider beneath them. Drivers. Servers. Assistants. Maids. People whose names they never bother learning.

He isn’t doing anything unusual.

Still, I’d like to fucking punch his smug face.

I lift my water glass and take a slow drink. It does nothing to cool the heat beneath my skin.

If I stay here, if Stanley says one more thing, I’ll do something I’ll regret.

I push back from the table. “I’ll return shortly,” I say.

Ella parts her lips as if she wants to ask where I’m going.

She doesn’t.

Stanley barely glances up from his steak.

I move toward the side of the ballroom, near the arched entrance that leads to a smaller corridor. A row of closed offices sits beyond it. The venue staff has given us access to most of this floor.

I stop near a marble column and force myself to breathe.

In.