The file on my phone was the conference-room clip. I did not play the audio at the table. I did not need to.
I simply let Colton see the frozen frame of himself standing in front of my private demo file, timestamped, on a screen his firm was never authorized to open, and I watched a man who had spent two dinners deciding what kind of woman I was realize, in real time, exactly what kind he had actually been dealing with. He set his spoon down very carefully. My father asked what it was. I turned the phone so Sienna could see it too, because she deserved to.
