No one moved.
One of the women opened her mouth, perhaps to apologize, perhaps to defend herself, but Taylor had already turned away.
“We’re leaving,” he said.
The ballroom remained frozen long enough for Maya to feel it all—the stares, the shame of being defended, the deeper shame of needing it, the electric confusion of hearing him speak as though he meant every word. He guided her across the marble floor, past tables crowded with white roses and donor cards and half-finished wine, through the lobby where the doormen looked discreetly away, and out beneath the hotel awning into rain-dark Manhattan.
