The Lobby

Whatever you said to Max in those texts, Bryce Halden has never in his life been good at waiting.

At 11:20 he's still in the lobby. Radek reports this by appearing in the hallway outside your room like a large, disapproving ghost.

"He is shouting at the plant," Radek says.

"The plant?"

"The big one. By the desk." A pause. "It is losing."

You laugh, which you didn't expect. Then you pull on the cashmere sweater Josette left on the bed and go down, because you want to see the end of this with your own eyes.

Delaune Tower's lobby is a cathedral of black marble and white light. At this hour it's empty except for two security guards trying very hard not to look interested, an orchid the size of a car, and your ex-husband.

You almost don't recognize him.

Bryce Halden doesn't do rumpled. Bryce has a man who irons his shirts and another man who chooses his ties. But his jacket is gone, his sleeves are shoved up, his perfect blond hair has a hand-shaped dent in it, and he's pacing in front of the security desk like the floor owes him money.

He sees you and stops.

For a second something crosses his face that you haven't seen in years. You can't name it fast enough before it's gone.

"Finally," he says. "Get your things."

"Hello, Bryce."

"Don't hello, Bryce me. It's eleven o'clock at night, I've been standing in this mausoleum for half an hour, and my father has called me nine times." He holds out his hand like you're a coat he's collecting. "Enough. Come home."

"I told you on the phone. No."

"You told me on the phone because Delaune was sitting next to you." He steps closer. "You don't know him, Ava. You don't know what he does. He takes things apart for money. Companies, families. That's his whole business model."

"Mine too, apparently," says a voice behind you. "I took apart a marriage this morning. Very efficient. Four minutes."

Max comes out of the private elevator in a gray T-shirt and dark trousers, barefoot, hair damp, as if he couldn't be bothered to dress for this. It's somehow worse than a suit. Both security guards straighten.

Bryce's jaw goes tight. "Delaune."

"Halden." Max smiles. It's friendly. It's the friendliest thing you've ever seen, and the guards take one step back from it. "You've met my wife."

"She's not your wife. It's a stunt."

"It's a marriage license, filed with the City of New York. I can have a copy sent over. You can read it." The smile widens by a millimeter. "Or have someone read it to you."

Bryce goes red to the ears.

Then Max does something that surprises you. He stops. He comes to stand beside you, not in front of you, and he puts his hands in his pockets and says nothing more. He leaves the floor to you.

Bryce looks at him. Then at you. You watch him understand that Max isn't going to fight him for you. Max is going to let you decide.

"Ava," Bryce says, quieter. "Five years."

"I know how long it was. I was there." Your voice comes out level. "You weren't."

"That's not fair."

"You signed our divorce without reading it, Bryce. You answered an email in the middle of it. Then you said happy anniversary and walked out." Your throat burns, but you hold it. "I'm not angry. I'm finished. Go home."

He stares at you like you're speaking a language he used to know.

For a moment you think he might actually say something real. His mouth opens.

The revolving door turns.

A man in a long gray overcoat walks in out of the night, silver-haired, smooth, expensive in a way that looks like it's been sanded. Victor Osterman. Halden Group's general counsel. You've sat beside him at twenty dinners and he's never once asked you a question.

He doesn't look at Bryce. He looks at you.

"Mrs. Halden." A thin smile. "Forgive me. Mrs. Delaune." He holds out a cream envelope. "A formal letter on behalf of Halden Group and the Halden family. I'd have sent it by courier, but given the hour and the circumstances, I thought it better to deliver it by hand."

"Victor," Bryce says sharply. "What is this? I didn't ask you to come here."

"Your father did," Osterman says, without turning his head.

Bryce goes still.

Max holds out his hand for the envelope. Osterman ignores him and keeps it extended toward you.

You take it. The paper is heavy. Your name is typed on the front, both of them, Halden crossed out in ink and Delaune written above in a tidy hand.

"What is it?"

"A request," says Osterman. "That you return all documents in your possession relating to Corvina, and refrain from discussing any Corvina matters with any third party." His eyes slide to Max for exactly one second. "Particularly interested ones. You'll find the details inside. We'd appreciate your cooperation by Friday."

By Friday. You feel Max go very still beside you.

"I'm sorry," you say. "Relating to what?"

Osterman's thin smile doesn't move. "I think you'll find you know more about it than you remember, Mrs. Delaune. Good night." He nods to Bryce like a man nodding to a client he doesn't respect. "Your car is outside. Your father would like to see you."

Bryce looks at you. Whatever was almost on his face is gone now, packed away.

"Read the letter, Ava," he says roughly. "And then call me. Please."

Please. You can't remember the last time he said it.

The revolving door takes them both.

The lobby is silent. Somewhere a vent hums. The orchid, which has survived Bryce, looks smug.

You tear the envelope open right there under the white lights. Two pages, dense with legal language. Halden Group. The Halden Family Trust. Demands. Deadlines. And a word, again and again, that means nothing to you.

Corvina Bay Holdings I through XIV.

You turn to the second page.

...in your capacity as sole director of record of each Corvina entity...

You read it twice. Then a third time, because your eyes won't make it mean anything.

"Max," you say. Your voice sounds very far away. "What is Corvina?"

He doesn't answer right away.

You look up. He's watching you with an expression you haven't seen on him yet. Not amused. Not lethal. Something like grief.

"You've never heard of it," he says. Not a question.

"Never in my life."

You look down at the letter in your hand, at the line that says you are the director of fourteen companies you've never heard of, signed in your own name, and the marble floor of the lobby suddenly feels like the deck of a ship.