She walked across the marble, her heels quiet now, and stopped a respectful distance away.
“You can stay for cake,” Elise said.
Lila shook her head, tears tracking fresh lines down her cheeks.
“I shouldn’t have come. I didn’t know it was your anniversary. He said it was a work dinner.” Her voice cracked. “I’m so sorry. You were supposed to… I thought you would scream or throw something and I would feel better. I feel sick.”
Elise looked at the young woman’s face, at the smudged makeup, at the way she held herself as if trying to take up less space.
“You were lied to, too,” Elise said. “That doesn’t make what happened okay. But it makes you not the villain of this story. He is.”
Lila pressed the business card to her chest.
“Is this… is this your company?”
Elise smiled, small and real.
“It started as my little hobby,” she said. “Now it’s a foundation. We help women untangle the paperwork men tell them not to worry about. Leases. Deeds. Business filings. We read the documents. We keep copies. We make sure no one has to be told to be out of her own apartment tomorrow.”
Lila stared at the card, at the little doorway logo, then back at Elise.
“Did you know I would be here tonight?”
“I hoped you would see who he is before you signed anything with him,” Elise said honestly. “I didn’t know if you would. I left the door open. You walked through it. That took courage, even if you didn’t know it.”
Lila’s breath hitched.
“Can I… can I hug you? Is that weird?”
Elise opened her arms.
Lila stepped in, stiff at first, then collapsing, her forehead on Elise’s shoulder, the silver fabric rustling. Elise held her, one hand on the back of her head, the other around her shoulders, the way she had once held friends’ daughters when they cried about boys who weren’t worth it.
Over Lila’s shoulder, Elise saw Victor’s mother being helped to her feet by Victor’s brother. The old woman met Elise’s eyes across the room and mouthed, Thank you.
Elise mouthed back, I love you.
The violins reached the end of their piece and faded, leaving only the soft clink of plates and low voices.
The photographer Victor had hired approached Elise, hesitant, camera hanging at his side.
“Mrs. Moreau,” he said. “I… you paid my deposit. Do you want me to delete the photos of… of what he did? I have everything on the card.”
Elise considered.
“No,” she said after a moment. “Keep the ones where I’m standing. Delete the ones where I’m sitting still. I don’t need pictures of myself waiting to be chosen. I have enough of those.”
He nodded, eyes bright.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her sister returned with two plates of cake and handed one to Lila, who took it with a watery smile.
The three women stood by the window together, eating cake with small plastic forks, the city glittering beyond the glass, the ballroom warm and noisy and alive behind them.
Later, much later, after the guests had left in clusters, hugging Elise at the door, pressing her hands, whispering, I didn’t know, I’m so sorry, you were magnificent, after the manager had boxed the remaining roses for her to take, after Lila had left with the card safe in her purse and a promise to call, Elise stood alone for a moment beside the long anniversary table.
Her sister was settling the bill at the bar, even though Elise had already paid, just to be sure.
