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Around the table, partners smiled uneasily. Someone cleared their throat. Wine was poured. Plates were cleared. The conversation shifted, as if nothing sharp had just been said. That was Mark’s real talent—not cruelty, but the ability to move on before anyone could object.
I excused myself briefly, standing to adjust my jacket, and when I sat back down, my phone was warm in my palm.
Mark raised his glass again. “To growth,” he said. “To choosing the right people.”
I stood.
The chair scraped lightly against the floor, a small sound that somehow cut through everything.
“Since we’re celebrating honesty tonight,” I said calmly, my voice steady in a way that surprised even me, “I thought it might be appropriate to hear what you said when you believed no one was listening.”
Mark frowned. “Amelia, don’t—”
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