The Phone on the Marble

The penthouse was too beautiful for the sound Emma made when she hit the floor.
Glass walls held the city in blue light. The marble under her palms was cold enough to make her breathe through her teeth. A black phone lay a few inches from her hand, sliding slowly across the polished stone as if it wanted to leave before she did.
Grant Moreau stood above her in a silver-gray suit, his tie loosened, his expression arranged into something he probably thought looked powerful.
Behind him, Sloane Vale sat on the cream sofa with her legs crossed and a burgundy dress cut sharp enough to match her smile.
Neither of them moved to help.
Emma pushed herself onto one elbow. Her blonde hair had fallen across her cheek. Her breath shook once, then steadied.
Grant looked down at her and laughed without humor.
“Call anyone you want,” he said. “Nobody comes into my house unless I allow it.”
Emma stared at the phone.
Then she reached for it with a hand that no longer trembled.
A thin line of spilled champagne glittered beside the phone. It looked almost elegant from the sofa, like the penthouse itself was trying to turn humiliation into decoration.
Emma had learned that expensive rooms could make cruelty look rehearsed. Tonight, every lamp, every cushion, every reflection in the window seemed arranged to make her pain appear smaller than Grant’s reputation.