6. Chapter Six
Chapter six
Inés
I slip away quietly while everyone else is distracted by some big author giving an impromptu speech at the bar. No one even notices I'm gone. Not Harrison. Not Margaux. And certainly not Cynthia, who's probably already planning how she'll spin tonight's events in her favor.
I stand under the awning, watching the rain fall and trying to gather my thoughts. My phone vibrates in my clutch, but I don't bother checking it. I know who it is without looking. It's Harrison, wondering where I went and if I'm okay.
But I'm not okay. And I don't want to lie about it anymore.
I hail a cab and give the driver my address, then sit back against the seat, feeling the exhaustion settle into my bones. The tears finally come then, running down my cheeks as I watch the city blur outside the window. It's like the dam inside me has broken, and now there's no stopping it.
The cab pulls up in front of our building and I pay the driver. As I step out into the rain again, I realize something: this might just be my moment to decide. Do I go inside, pack my bags, and disappear? Or do I stay and fight for what's mine?
Does it matter? What will actually make me happy?
Water is dripping down my face, mixing with tears. But then my phone buzzes again, breaking the spell.
I glance at the screen, expecting another message from Harrison, but it's not him. It's a number I don't recognize.
With trembling fingers, I answer the call. "Hello?"
There's a pause, then a hesitant voice says, "Uh, M-Mrs. Aragao? Err, sorry; Mrs. Locke?"
I only partially recognize it.
"It's me...Callum, Brantley? Junior editor?" He sounds nervous. "I'm so sorry to bother you, but...well, I saw you leaving the gala, and you looked really upset. So I thought maybe..."
He trails off, and I close my eyes for a moment. Ah. Callum is one of the younger editors I've taken under my wing since he joined Locke I was too wrapped up in everything else to check the program tonight. But if what he's saying is true...
"Who changed it?" I ask, already suspecting the answer.
Callum hesitates, then another voice comes on the line, a woman with an English accent I know well.
It's Greta Fournier, Harrison's social secretary, not the revolving temp at the front desk, but the one who's been handling events, galas, and correspondence for years.
The one who actually knows how things work around here.
"Hello, Mrs. Locke," she says formally, as if we haven't worked together for years. "I'm...afraid it was Cynthia who instructed me to remove your name from the acknowledgments."
I close my eyes, feeling sick to my stomach. Of course it was. She couldn't even let me have this one moment of recognition. What she said at the dinner was only the start of her attack. She had to make sure I was completely erased from the night.
"Why?" I whisper, not expecting an answer.
There's a pause, then Greta says, "She didn't want to cause any 'confusion,' or something, when I asked. That's how she put it."
I laugh bitterly, staring up at the dark sky above me. Of course. She wanted there to be no confusion about who the star of this show really was. This fucking woman, and her obsession with her son. I'm nothing more than a prop to them, an accessory.
But not anymore.
"Thank you for telling me," I say quietly, feeling a cold anger settle over me like armor. "And thank you for caring enough to call. I appreciate it."
I hear Callum in the background saying something to Greta, and then he's back on the line.
"Inés, we're behind you," he says, sounding more confident now. "We're sorry we haven't said something sooner. But you deserve so much more than this."
Tears fill my eyes again, but they're different this time.
These ones are for the people who I forgot value what I bring to the table, and the ones I cherish for doing such incredible things for our authors and team.
People like Callum, and maybe even Diane Aoki, who saw through the bullshit tonight.
"I appreciate that," I manage to say. "More than you know."
Before I hang up, I ask Greta to reserve the original copy of the program for me, which seemingly has Cynthia's hand-written notes and suggestions. She says she will.
When I end the call, I decide, against my better judgement, to make another.
I pull out the white card from my purse and stare at the number printed on it. The one Diane Aoki told me to call tomorrow morning.
Fuck it, I think, dialing the number. Why wait? It's basically tomorrow morning.
It rings twice before someone picks up. "Hello?" says a woman's voice.
The voice is immediately familiar. I feel like I'm in a dream.
"Hi, this is Inés...Aragao." I stumble over my own name, suddenly unsure how to introduce myself. "Um, I'm calling because Diane Aoki gave me this number."
"Oh!" The woman sounds surprised but pleased. "Well, Inés; it's been a minute. This is Ruth-Ann."
Ruth Fisk? I...knew her before I met Harrison.
We used to work together at a small indie publishing house. It was so long ago that I almost forgot about her, but now I'm flooded with memories of late nights over manuscripts and the cheapest wine we could get our hands on. She was a mentor to me, one of the real lovers of the art.
If I remember correctly, she retired and opened a small book shop. Henry Street, maybe?
Honestly, it feels like another life. When I still saw myself as a writer, when I still had my novel and my violin and my dignity.
"Oh my god. I didn't...realize. Wow. I didn't know you were..."
"Still in the neighborhood?" She laughs, her voice warm and familiar. "Yeah, I've been around."
"I'm sorry," I say, feeling embarrassed for losing touch with someone who was once so important to me. "I've been...well, life has a way of taking you in different directions."
"No need to apologize, honey." Ruth sounds understanding. "I get it. But what can I do for you? Why are you calling so late?"
I take a deep breath and explain everything: the gala, Harrison and Margaux, Cynthia's little games. As I talk, it starts to pour harder, soaking me where I stand on the sidewalk, but I barely feel it.
Ruth listens without interrupting until I finish, then sighs heavily into the phone.
"Oh, sweetie," she says sadly. "That's... That's some bullshit, right there."
I let out a bitter laugh, grateful for her honesty. "Yeah," I agree. "It is."
There's a pause before she speaks again. "You want my advice, girlie? Take some time for yourself. Don't let them run you into the ground. And don't make any big decisions right now, when you're all emotional."
I nod, even though she can't see me. "Okay," I whisper.
"Go home, pack a bag, and come stay with me.
The apartment upstairs is free." Her tone is firm but kind, like she's not giving me an option here.
"I suspect our sweet Diane is as obtuse as ever, so you may not have understood.
But this is the kind of thing that...the women in our little network help each other with.
We'll figure out your next move together. "
My eyes fill with tears at the simple offer. I feel like I haven't stopped crying for the last few hours, first from heartbreak and now from relief.
"I... I'd like that," I say, realizing how true it is. I don't want to be alone tonight or any night for a while. "Thank you."
"Good, girlie." She sounds satisfied. "Now, I'll leave the key under the mat. Do you have my address on Henry Street? Yes? Okay. See you in a bit."
As I hang up the phone, I look up at the loft and feel a sudden pang of nostalgia for what we once had here. But it's overshadowed by the anger simmering inside me.
I call another cab, one that will take me to Henry Street.
Because right now, the only place I want to be is far away from here and everyone in it. Far away from the people who have made me feel invisible and small.
And as the rain continues to pour down on my head, I know that this time, I won't let them break me.
Because even if they don't see me, there are people out there who do.
People like Callum and Diane, Greta and Ruth-Ann, who see the truth and—I hope—are willing to stand by me through whatever comes next.
***
It takes twenty minutes for the cab to arrive, and in that time I stand there, soaking wet and shivering, staring up at the loft. It looks so beautiful from the outside, all warm and inviting, with the soft glow of lights spilling out onto the street. A picture-perfect life.
But I know better now. That light doesn't come from love or happiness; it's just a carefully constructed facade. And the cracks are starting to show.
When the cab finally pulls up, I slide into the backseat and give Ruth-Ann's address. The driver looks at me through the rearview mirror with concern. "You alright, ma'am?"
I nod, wiping my wet hair away from my face. "Just a long night," I mumble.
He doesn't press further, thank god. As we drive through the rain-slicked streets of Brooklyn, I let myself feel the exhaustion settle into my bones. It's been a hell of an evening, and I'm not even close to being done with it all.
When we get to Henry Street, the driver pulls up in front of Ruth-Ann's shop, its windows dark but for a single lamp on the main floor.
I pay the driver and get out, standing under the awning of the shop while I fish for the key Ruth said she left under the mat. The lock sticks a bit as I turn it, but soon enough I'm stepping inside, shaking off the rain and looking around.
The place is exactly how I remember it from the time I visited after the bookstore's grand opening about nine years ago: shelves stacked high with books, a cozy reading nook by the window, the smell of old paper lingering in the air.
But it's also different somehow. Maybe because I'm seeing it through new eyes now, with the knowledge that this is where I'll be staying for a while.
The apartment upstairs is small but charming, with its own little kitchenette and bathroom, a queen-sized bed taking up most of the bedroom space, and a desk tucked into a corner overlooking Henry Street.
Ruth left a note on the desk: Welcome home. There's some tea in the cupboard if you need it.
I smile despite myself, grateful for her warmth and kindness. She doesn't know everything about my life or my marriage, but she understands enough to know what I need right now.
I strip off my wet clothes, wrapping myself in a soft blanket from the bed. To my surprise, there's a fluffy white robe hanging on the bathroom door, like she was expecting me to need it. I slip into it gratefully, feeling some of the chill leave my body.
As I sit at the desk and sip my tea, my phone buzzes with a message. It's Harrison: Where are you? Everyone's looking for you. You okay?
I stare at the words for a moment before typing back: I'm fine. Just needed some space. I'll be back in the morning.
I don't know if that's true or not. I just don't know. But, it's all I can give him right now. Anything else would be too raw and painful and messy.
And as I sit here in this borrowed apartment, watching the rain fall on Henry Street outside my window, I realize that this is exactly what I needed: a little space to breathe, to figure out what comes next.
I have a feeling it won't be easy, but at least now I'm not alone in it.