Chapter 2 - The Exit Strategy
The rain outside the Beverly Wilshire was falling in thick, vertical sheets that blurred the neon signs along Wilshire Boulevard.
I didn't wait for the valet. I walked straight past the white-gloved attendants, my heels clicking against the wet travertine of the forecourt, the silk hem of my dress absorbing dark rings of rainwater within five seconds.
"Kate! Kate, wait!"
Brad’s voice was clipped, breathless, stripped of its usual smooth cadence.
He caught me near the fountain. He hadn't bothered with his coat. His white dress shirt was already sticking to his shoulders, the pink mark on his cheek bone darker now under the harsh exterior LEDs.
"Are you insane?" he demanded, grabbing my wrist. "Do you have any idea what that looked like in there? My father was sitting forty feet away!"
I stopped. I didn't pull my arm back. I just looked at his fingers around my wrist until he slowly, reluctantly let go.
"Your father was sitting forty feet away when Vanessa kissed you," I said, my voice cold and dry despite the rain running down my face. "He didn't seem particularly disturbed then."
"She was out of line!" Brad shouted, wiping water from his eyes. "I was going to handle it! But you—you threw a two-hundred-thousand-dollar ring across a public room like a child having a meltdown!"
"I didn't throw a ring because she kissed you, Brad," I said softly, stepping closer so he couldn't pretend the thunder drowned me out. "I threw it because when she insulted me, you looked at me like I was the problem for hearing it."
He blinked, thrown off by the lack of screaming in my voice. Brad was built for boardrooms and negotiated settlements; he understood aggression, but he had no vocabulary for absolute detachment.
"We can talk about this in the car," he said, his tone shifting into that persuasive, diplomatic register he used on difficult clients. "Come on. The driver is pulling up. We'll go back to the house, we'll drink some tea, and we'll figure out how to handle the damage control with the press tomorrow."
"There is no 'we,' Brad."
"Kate, stop being dramatic," he snapped, his impatience breaking through the polish again. "You’re upset. I get it. Vanessa was provocative. But you don't throw away three years over ten seconds of poor judgment at a charity event."
"It wasn't ten seconds," I said, taking two steps backward, out from beneath the shelter of the overhang. "It was three years of watching you weigh my dignity against your comfort and deciding I was easier to sacrifice."
"I paid your studio rent for six months!" he yelled after me, the words spilling out before he could stop them—the ultimate lever, the final proof of his ownership.
I froze.
The rain beat down between us, cold and heavy.
I turned back to look at him. He stood under the canopy, looking suddenly smaller in his wet shirt, his mouth slightly open as if he wished he could pull the sentence back through his teeth.
"You didn't pay it, Brad," I said, every word hitting like a strike against stone. "You loaned it. And you'll have a cashier's check on your desk by noon tomorrow."
I didn't wait for his reply. I flagged down a yellow cab that was idling near the corner, pulled the door open, and slid onto the cold vinyl seat before Brad could move down the steps.
"Where to, lady?" the driver asked, glancing at me in the rearview mirror—a woman in an eight-thousand-dollar ruined gown with red eyes and no umbrella.
"Downtown," I said, looking out the window as the lights of the hotel receded into the dark. "Ninth and Broadway."
My studio was located on the fifth floor of a converted 1920s garment building. It smelled of steam irons, pattern paper, and cheap cedar oil. It was small, cold at night, and lacked the floor-to-ceiling views of Brad’s condo in Pacific Palisades.
It was also the only place in Los Angeles where nobody was asking me to be quiet for the sake of the Miller family name.
I unlocked the double deadbolt, turned on the overhead fluorescent banks, and stood in the middle of the room. My cutting table was covered in sketches for my spring collection—thirty pieces I had spent six months designing while trying to fit into the margins of Brad's calendar.
I walked over to the desk, pulled a fresh ledger from the drawer, and opened it.
The debt to Bradley Miller was forty-two thousand dollars.
My personal bank account held eighteen thousand three hundred.
May you like
I looked at the numbers for a long time, the rain pounding against the industrial metal window frames behind me.
Then I picked up my shears, walked over to the mannequin wearing the half-finished sample dress I was supposed to wear to Brad’s sister’s engagement brunch next month, and cut it clean down the spine.
