“Pay,” Garrett said softly, “or this ends tonight.”
I calmly dabbed my face with a linen napkin.
Silence filled the room. Waiters stood motionless near the kitchen doors. A nearby couple stared at their plates, pretending not to notice. Garrett’s younger brother lowered his gaze. Vivian raised her wineglass, flashing the same poisonous little smile she’d perfected during our five-year marriage.
“You embarrassed him, Claire,” she said. “A wife doesn’t humiliate her husband in public.”
I glanced at the bill between us.
Eight thousand four hundred dollars.
Garrett had ordered everything for the group: oysters, Wagyu, champagne, and two wines whose names he couldn’t pronounce. He’d entertained his family, boasted to the manager, and informed the waiter, “My wife will take care of it.”
That was his usual routine.
Initially, I paid to avoid arguments. Later, because Garrett claimed his business was “between cycles.” And then because Vivian constantly reminded me how fortunate I was that her son had married someone “so practical.” To them, practical meant useful, silent, and always available.
