Practical. That was what people called women when they benefited from their discipline but hated their control.
I lifted my glass. “To excitement.”
Clara smiled, thinking she had won.
Then she reached across and kissed him.
The dining room went silent for one impossible second. A waiter dropped a spoon. Evan pulled back, not out of guilt, but calculation.
“Maya,” he said sharply.
“No, please.” I leaned back. “Continue. I’m learning so much.”
Clara’s voice turned syrupy. “You should be grateful. At least you found out before the wedding.”
“Did I?”
The question landed like a knife on the table.
Evan’s face changed. Just a flicker. But I saw it.
Three weeks earlier, my accountant had flagged unusual activity in the restaurant’s vendor accounts. Fake invoices. Overpriced wine orders. Payments routed through a consultancy registered under Evan’s college roommate. At first, I told myself it was impossible.
Then I found Clara’s name on the emails.
They had not only betrayed me. They had planned to bleed my business before the wedding, convince me to sign over shares to Evan, and use my own money to open a “sister concept” restaurant with Clara as creative director.
Creative director. Clara couldn’t direct boiling water.
Evan set down his glass. “We should talk privately.”
“Now you want privacy?”
His jaw tightened. “Don’t embarrass yourself.”
There it was. The old trick. Make me feel small, emotional, unreasonable. Make me apologize for noticing the knife in my back.
I turned to Daniel. “Please bring the anniversary folder.”
Evan blinked. “What folder?”
“The one with the contracts you asked me to sign tomorrow.”
Clara’s smile faded.
