I turn to the crowd. Steady. "I'm sorry to everyone here," I say, "for dragging work into this. There will be personnel changes soon. HR and the board will handle the details."
Then I put the recorder back in my jacket and take my phone. I don't wait for security. I don't wait for the board. I don't wait for Derek's next excuse.
I walk to the elevator, press the button, and step inside when it opens. As the doors slide shut, I see him one last time, surrounded by the same people who watched him humiliate me. Only now their eyes are on him like he's a broken part that just failed inspection.
The doors close.
Same rooftop.
Different man walking away.
When I walk in the door, the apartment feels smaller. Monica's on the couch, knees pulled up, mascara smeared, eyes raw from crying. Her phone is on the coffee table, screen down like it's finally out of things to say. "David," she says, standing up too fast. "We need to talk."
"We will," I answer. "But everything that matters is already on the recordings."
Her face tightens. That word lands. She knows exactly who would be on the other end of those recordings.
"He lied," she blurts. "Whatever he told you, he twisted it. He's just trying to ruin us."
"Derek didn't tell me you said, 'I love you,' in our living room," I cut in. "I heard that myself. You also called me a routine engine in bed. That was creative, by the way."
She freezes, color draining. "You... You were listening."
"I was paying attention," I say. "Big difference."
She shifts tactics fast. They always do. "Okay," she says, tears starting again. "Yes, I messed up. It was a mistake."
"I felt ignored, and he pressured me, and then it went too far, and I didn't know how to stop. And he said he'd ruin your job if I stopped."
My voice is calm, not raised. That seems to scare her more. "You had three months of too far. You had every day to stop."
"Every time you walked into this apartment, you chose not to."
She steps closer, reaching for my arm. "We've been married eight years, David. Eight years. You're really going to throw that away?"
"I still love you."
"Love isn't what you say at the end," I tell her. "It's what you do in the middle. For three months straight, you picked him every day."
"That's not a mistake. That's a pattern."