Her posture, usually impossibly straight, had softened. Ryan did a quiet count. She’d had at least four drinks in the hour he’d been watching the room. And the way she was gripping the edge of the bar told him she wasn’t feeling entirely steady. He wasn’t going to say anything. It wasn’t his place. But then he saw Marcus Webb, senior account director, the kind of man who wore his ego like cologne, slide up next to her, hand already moving toward the small of her back.
Ryan had heard stories about Marcus. Everyone had. He set down his water glass and walked over. Victoria. He said it casually like they were mid-conversation. Ready to go over those Langford projections? I’ve got the revised deck on my laptop. She blinked at him and for a split second he saw something unguarded in her eyes. Confusion, then recognition, then quiet relief. Right, she said straightening. Yes, those projections. Marcus pulled back annoyed. Ryan didn’t acknowledge him. He simply fell into step beside Victoria and steered them both toward the hallway.
Once they were clear of the crowd, Victoria exhaled slowly. I wasn’t drunk. I know, Ryan said. She looked at him sideways. I had maybe four drinks in an hour on what I’m guessing was an empty stomach. He wasn’t accusing her, he was just stating facts. I have a daughter. I count things. She was quiet for a moment. Then Marcus is harmless. Ryan said nothing, which was answer enough. They stood in the lobby while he ordered her an Uber.
She tried to protest, said she was fine, said she’d call her own car, said she didn’t need anyone looking after her. But somewhere between the third and fourth sentence, she leaned slightly against the wall and closed her eyes for just a second too long. I’m going with you, Ryan said. You don’t have to. I have a daughter at home. I know what it looks like when someone needs 5 more minutes before they’re safe to be alone. He said it gently.
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