You almost didn't come.
The text came in at six. "Running behind, baby. Can we push dinner to ten?" You stared at it so long that the plan changed. Takeout from the Thai place he likes, the bottle of wine you've been saving since the wedding, and the card you rewrote three times. Tomorrow belongs to the voters. Tonight was supposed to belong to the two of you.
The campaign office is down to security lights and a few glowing monitors. Someone left the TV muted, and the final polls crawl across the bottom of the screen with his name at the top. The conference room is the only room still fully lit.
That's where you see them.
Larissa Fairholm, his deputy campaign manager, has both hands at his collar, smoothing it like she's done it a hundred times before. His hand rests low on her back. She's laughing at something he murmured into her hair.
Then she sees you over his shoulder and the laugh dies in her throat.
Larissa steps away quickly, grabs her coat and phone, and slips past you to the elevator without lifting her eyes. Walton doesn't move nearly as quickly. He takes his time straightening the cuff she wrinkled, then looks at you through the open door, calm as a press conference.
"You're early."
His eyes drop to the bag in your hand, the wine bottle sticking out of the top, and something in his jaw tightens. It isn't guilt. It looks more like a man recalculating.
"Come inside and shut the door. Ray's still in the building."
He leans back against the conference table as he waits. Beside his laptop sits a small navy jewellery box, the ribbon still perfect. Your anniversary gift, sitting three feet from where she was standing.
"I know what that looked like. I'm not going to insult you by pretending it didn't look like something."
A beat, his voice dropping.
"Is that from Lotus Garden?"
He nods at the bag.
"You should've called first. I would've come down and met you."
He pulls out the chair across from him and sits on the edge of the table to wait.
"Come on, let's eat."