Chapter 17
ETHAN SEPTEMBER
They don’t send limos when things are going well.
That’s the first thing I think as the black sedan pulls up to JFK, glossy and anonymous, the driver stepping out and opening the trunk like we’re important instead of expendable.
Beth hovers beside me, clutching her carry-on.
“Is this… for us?”
“For the company,” I say. “Same thing. Sort of.”
She smiles anyway, wide-eyed as we slide into the backseat. Leather. Tinted windows. Bottled water already waiting. She presses her forehead briefly to the glass as Manhattan begins to materialize in the distance.
I know better.
This isn’t a reward.
This is how they soften the ground before they drop you.
Traffic crawls. The city rises sharp and vertical, glass and steel stacked like a threat. Beth keeps glancing around, taking it all in like she’s been handed a backstage pass.
We pull up to the hotel on Park Avenue just before six.
That’s where Ellen is waiting.
Clipboard tucked under one arm. Heels clicking like punctuation marks against the pavement. She doesn’t smile when she sees us — just checks her watch, nods once, and gestures toward the revolving doors.
“Upstairs,” she says. “Change. Drinks start at six sharp.”
Beth straightens instantly, impressed.
I clock the details — Ellen not asking about Boston, not asking about the quarter, not asking about anything that matters.
Punishment comes wrapped in five-star hotels and tight schedules.
The hotel on Park Avenue is obscene in the way only corporate hotels can be—quiet luxury, money without warmth. At check-in, someone hands me an envelope with the agenda printed on thick paper like it’s a wedding invitation.
Drinks at six. Meet and greet.
Jim is already there when we get upstairs. He’s chewing gum like it personally wronged him, jaw tight, eyes restless. He hasn’t smiled in days. No one has.
At six sharp, we gather in the lounge. Everyone pretends. Everyone’s careful. No one wants to be the one who says the wrong thing and gets marked. Heads are already on the block—we just don’t know whose.
Beth leans toward me. “Is it always like this?”
“Only when things are bad,” I murmur.
Dinner is at Windows on the World.
The irony doesn’t escape me.
Open bar. Lobster. Linen so white it feels aggressive. The city sprawls beneath us, glittering and infinite, like nothing could ever go wrong here. Beth keeps glancing down, stunned.
“This is unreal,” she whispers. “Should I tip?”
I shake my head. “No. Corporate covers everything. Even the guilt.”
She laughs, unsure if I’m joking.
I’m not.
We eat. We drink. We perform. This is what they do—distract you with decadence while sharpening the knife. Expense it all. Pretend it’s not your ass on the line.
Halfway through the second drink, Beth clears her throat. “Sage has been calling. A lot.”
I exhale slowly. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
She nods immediately. “I know. I just… I hope it’s not weird. She’s my friend. But you’re my boss. And I knew you first. I’m loyal to you.”
I look at her then, really look. “You don’t have to stop being friends with her because we broke up.”
Relief flashes across her face.
“Just—” I pause. “Keep my life private. What I’m worried about. Don’t tell her anything.”
“Of course,” she says quickly. “Of course.”
We stand side by side at the window, glasses in hand, staring down at the city like it might answer something.
After a moment, I ask, “How are you holding up?”
Beth shrugs, a practiced motion. “Honestly? Numb. I was alone all summer anyway. Turns out he was cheating, so… it kind of feels the same. Just without the hot sex and the obligatory phone calls.”
She winces, then smirks. “It’s fine. I’m twenty-three. I wasn’t expecting a ring.”
That hits closer than she knows.
“I broke up with my girlfriend at twenty-three,” I tell her. “Mary. She wanted one. Needed one. I wasn’t ready. Smartest thing I ever did—financially, at least.”
Beth snorts. Then the dam breaks.
“I can’t do this anymore, Ethan. The cover charges alone—forty, sixty bucks a night.
Then the drinks. And if someone buys me a round, I have to buy one back.
Two hundred dollars later and that’s before outfits, makeup, eating out.
At least we sleep on the boat, but still. I can’t save anything. I’m drowning.”
I nod. “I know.”
She looks at me, surprised.
“I can’t do a lot of things anymore either,” I admit quietly. “Not the way I used to.”
I lift my glass slightly. “We’ll figure it out. Old Beth. Old Ethan.”
She smiles then. Real this time.
Below us, New York keeps shining, merciless and beautiful, like it doesn’t care who survives the week.
And for the first time all summer, I don’t either.
The BlackBerry won’t stop buzzing.
Not ringing. Not chiming. Just that sharp, insistent vibration against the nightstand — short bursts every few minutes, like a pulse that won’t settle.
I don’t have to look to know who it’s from.
New email.
New email.
New email.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling of the hotel room, the faint hum of Manhattan traffic seeping through the glass. The device lights up again, that little red notification blinking like it’s demanding something from me.
I finally glance.
From: Sage
Subject: Please
I don’t open it. I don’t need to.
Because I’ve already read the last ten.
I love you.
I’m so sorry.
Please, Ethan, I’ll do anything.
We can do couples therapy. I’ll see a psychiatrist. I’ll change.
Tell me what to do. Just tell me.
I left a check in your mailbox. I put the money back.
Please. One more chance.
The BlackBerry vibrates again before the screen even dims.
Another email.
It’s relentless. Not angry now. Not explosive.
Desperate.
And somehow, that’s worse.
I set the device face down, like that might mute the guilt creeping up my spine.
It doesn’t.
Because the truth — the part that keeps replaying — is simple and brutal:
If she had asked, I would’ve given her the money.
Five hundred. A thousand. I would’ve helped her without hesitation. Without conditions. Without resentment.
But she didn’t ask.
She logged into my accounts. She took it.
That’s not a misunderstanding.
That’s not passion gone wrong.
That’s a line you don’t uncross.
Beth’s BlackBerry starts buzzing too.
I see it from across the room — her device lighting up on the desk, vibrating in short, frantic bursts. Same sender. Same pattern.
She exhales slowly, like she’s bracing herself, then picks it up and steps into the bathroom, leaving the door cracked.
I don’t mean to listen.
I don’t have to.
Sage’s voice carries anyway — fast, sharp, unraveling.
“Are you with him?”
“Are you in the same room?”
“Are you guys having drinks together?”
“What is he doing right now?”
“Is he talking to anyone?”
“Is he flirting?”
Beth’s voice stays calm. Professional. Steady.
“We’re in meetings all day,” she says. “There’s barely any downtime. No reception half the time. It’s boring, honestly. He looks exhausted. I’m exhausted.”
A pause.
“I’ll see you when we get back,” Beth adds. “Okay?”
That seems to slow Sage down — at least temporarily.
When Beth comes back into the room, she looks drained, like someone who’s been holding a fragile thing together with her hands.
“I don’t want to lose her,” she says quietly.
“I know,” I answer.
We’re in New York two more days. Two more meetings where no one says the word failure but everyone feels it. Two more dinners pretending this is just business as usual. Two more nights of my BlackBerry lighting up with unread pleas.
On the last morning, I finally say it out loud.
“I can’t go back yet,” I tell Beth. “I need space. Time. I just… I can’t.”
She nods. No judgment. Just understanding.
“I’ll check on her,” she offers. “Make sure she’s okay.”
“Thank you.” I hesitate. “I loved her, Beth. I really did. But what happened between us — I can’t talk about it. I won’t. I’ll respect what we had. It just got bad.”
Beth sits with that, then looks at me carefully.
“I understand,” she says. “I never wanted to say anything before. It wasn’t my place.”
My jaw tightens.
“But there were nights we’d all go out without you,” she continues gently. “Because you were with her. And we’d talk. About the fights we could hear. The stuff breaking in the cabin. The bruise on your cheek you blamed on shaving.”
I say nothing.
“And the marks on her wrists,” Beth adds, softer now. “When you had to restrain her. You tried to hide it. But we saw.”
The room feels very still.
“At the bars,” she goes on, “we could feel it building. The looks. The tension. That’s why we kept hopping places — because it would get embarrassing, and we didn’t know how to help.”
I nod once.
That’s all I’ve got.
Because loving someone doesn’t mean surviving them.
And walking away doesn’t mean I didn’t try.
It just means I finally stopped pretending I could fix something that was already breaking me.