The last model left the runway, and the Winter Show crowd clapped like it was the best night of the year.
Calla stood near the back with her hands loose at her sides. She had come because Roman asked her to.
Then Roman Bellamy walked out under the white lights, and the clapping died.
Roman: Stay where you are. All of you.
He held the microphone low, like he was doing the room a favor.
Roman: Someone sold my collection last week. Three houses had my sketches before my own seamstresses did.
Calla felt the floor tilt a little. She knew that tone. She had heard it in their marriage.
Roman: The leak came from Calla Winslow.
A woman near the stage gasped. Someone else laughed, quick and nervous.
Roman: My ex-wife. The one who tells reporters we parted as friends.
Calla kept her chin up. Running was not something she did in front of an audience.
Calla: Roman. Say this to my face, in private.
Roman: No. You don't get privacy anymore.
Roman: I gave you a name, a house, a life. You were a warm body in my bed and a pair of hands in my office. Nothing more.
Sylvie came down the steps in a sleek black suit, smiling like she had won something.
Sylvie: Everyone already knew, sweetheart. You spread your legs for a Bellamy paycheck and still got thrown out with the trash.
Calla reached for his sleeve. She did not plan to beg. She wanted him to look at her.
He caught her wrist and squeezed until the bones ground together.
Then he shoved her back. Her shoulder hit the steel pillar behind her, hard enough to knock the air out.
Her teeth caught her lip. Blood ran warm down her chin.
Sylvie: Look at her. She's crying. God, no wonder he got bored.
Calla was not crying. Her eyes were dry and hot, but her lip would not stop bleeding.
Roman: If you say one word to the press, I'll end you. Not the studio. You. You'll have nothing left to stand on.
He said it so quietly that only she could hear. She believed every word.
Calla pulled her wrist free. The skin was already turning red where his fingers had been.
She wiped her lip with the back of her hand and looked at the blood.
Calla: You will regret this. Maybe not tonight. But you will.
Her voice came out steady. That steadiness cost her everything she had.
She walked out of the Winter Show with her head up and her heels even on the marble.
She did not let herself look back at him.
Outside, she stood by the curb until her hands stopped shaking.
She made herself one promise. She would never beg him for anything again.
From the stage, Roman watched her go. His hand still felt the shape of her wrist.
He told himself it was relief.