Delia tries to comfort him as he starts to sign, but he waves her away irritably.
I'm about to feel bad for her...
Until I see Delia's face turn cold.
She wasn't hurt at all by being waved off. The wide-eyed-girlfriend act drops off her face like a coat she's done wearing for the day. What's underneath is something I haven't seen on her until now. Something that's been calculating for the entire meeting, and that has finally finished its calculation.
She looks straight at me.
And then she actually smiles.
I have no idea what it means.
I only know that it makes me feel nauseous and uneasy. It's almost like she knows something I don't.
It's only later, when Sandy's done signing the divorce papers and Jeanne has asked them to leave, that Delia pauses by my side.
I try to step back. But she's already gripping my arm, and she's whispering into my ear—
"He'll replace you, too. Women like you are always replaceable, darling."
And then she's running to Sandy's side, fussing over him, pandering to his ego, and it’s only when Mr. Everford reaches for my arm—
“That bitch.”
It’s the only time I realize how Delia's dug her nails into my arm, deep enough to make my skin bleed.
Chapter Twenty-One
I'M AFRAID AGAIN.
I hate that I am, but I feel helpless. Powerless. Fear is gnawing at my bones, and it's all because of Delia's words.
It's only been ten minutes, I think. Ten minutes since we left the room while Jeanne and Mr. Lyle talk and Mr. Everford's men keep Sandy and the others from following us out. I don't think they will. But I guess he's just not taking chances.
Just like I'm not taking any chances right now.
I have so many questions. So many things I want to say. But I'm just so afraid of what I might hear—
Women like you are always replaceable, darling.
—and so I simply find myself going with the flow yet again, just flowing in whatever direction he takes me as his hand settles on the small of my back.
It's the simplest touch. There's even a layer separating my skin from his. And yet the way my body is reacting, it's as if he's done something so much more.
We start walking down the corridor toward the lobby, and his palm doesn't lift. Every step keeps the heat of him pressed against the same place. I'm a forty-two-year-old woman who has been touched by a man for twenty years. Somehow this is the touch that has me holding my breath. A hand against the back of a shirt. A hand that isn't even moving.
Stop, Nicole.
But I can't stop, because that's when I begin to notice things.
The first thing is the hotel manager who has been waiting at the end of the hallway, hands folded in front of him, expression carefully composed. He doesn't approach. He doesn't speak. He inclines his head a fraction of an inch as we pass.
Mr. Everford doesn't break stride.
He doesn't have to.
The second thing is the housekeeper who steps off the carpet runner and presses her back against the wall to let us pass, even though there was easily enough room for both of us. The third is the bellman at the corner who lifts his radio to his mouth as we approach, says something quiet, and then stands aside.