Garrett lunged toward my phone, but two servers intervened. One positioned himself between us while the other hurried to get the manager. Chairs scraped, and someone gasped. My heart pounded so fiercely I felt it in my wrists, yet my voice remained steady when the dispatcher answered.
I provided the restaurant’s name, address, and Garrett’s full name.
Only then did he truly panic.
“Claire,” he said gently, adopting the voice he used when seeking forgiveness. “Hang up. We’re married. Don’t do this.”
Vivian rose, gripping her handbag. “She’s unstable. She’s been under stress. My son was trying to calm her down.”
I met her gaze. “You may want to choose your next lie carefully.”
The manager arrived, a tall woman in a black suit named Elise. She surveyed my stained dress, Garrett’s empty glass, the overturned chair, and the bill. “Ma’am, are you safe?”
