He looked into his wine.
“She may try to contact the gallery.”
“She can try.”
“The hospital board already knows not to discuss my family.”
“Of course they do.”
“I told security months ago.”
I turned to him.
“You did what?”
“Elara, your mother once called you defective in writing. I assumed caution was appropriate.”
I loved him so much in that moment it nearly hurt.
“You planned for her.”
“I plan for surgical complications, toddlers with markers, and emotionally abusive aristocrats of Connecticut. It’s all risk management.”
Then, without warning, I cried.
Not dramatically. Not loudly. Tears simply rose and spilled over, and I pressed my hand to my mouth because some part of me still hated being seen in pain. Alexander set down his glass and moved beside me.
