She never mentioned the awards, the months-long reservation list, or the fifty employees whose livelihoods depended on his decisions.
Malik was still wearing his chef’s coat.
The sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and exhaustion showed around his eyes.
He sat across from me.
“I saw Gavin and Patricia leaving,” he said.
“If Camille sent you to negotiate, save your energy.”
“She didn’t.”
“Gavin?”
“No.”
I lifted my espresso.
“Then why are you here?”
A slow smile appeared.
“I wanted to see whether you really cut him off.”
“I terminated a vendor agreement.”
“He called Camille shouting that you destroyed his life.”
“He ended our marriage through a text message. I responded with equal efficiency.”
Malik leaned back.
“You finally did it.”
“That seems to be the word of the week.”
His smile faded.
“I am not here to defend him, Lydia.”
He reached inside his coat and placed a small black USB drive on the table.
It rested between us beside my untouched coffee.
“What is that?”
“Something you need to see before the divorce becomes only about your marriage.”
I did not touch it.
“Where did you get it?”
“Two weeks ago, Gavin cornered me in Patricia’s study after Sunday dinner. He had been drinking and wanted to prove that Northline was about to make him richer than everyone who had ever doubted him.”
“That sounds like Gavin.”
“He mentioned a boat.”
I looked at him.
“A boat?”
“Not a rental. A fifty-foot yacht.”
“I have never funded a yacht.”
“I know.”
Malik lowered his voice.
“He bragged that he had found a way to buy it without asking you. He said Patricia had more equity than she knew what to do with.”
My grip tightened around the espresso cup.
“Patricia owns her house outright.”
“She did.”
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