Under any other circumstances, the comment would have meant nothing.
That night it felt like someone had opened a window.
Fletcher heard her.
He looked down at his plate.
After the speeches, the billionaire approached me again.
“May we talk?” he asked.
I glanced at Fletcher.
He immediately stood.
“I’ll join you.”
The billionaire shook his head.
“I was asking her.”
Fletcher’s mouth tightened.
I surprised both of them.
“I’ll talk with you,” I said.
“But somewhere public.”
“Of course.”
We sat in a quiet seating area just outside the ballroom, visible through the open doors.
For several seconds neither of us knew what to say.
Finally he pointed toward the locket.
“You kept it.”
“Yes.”
“I thought you might have thrown it away.”
“I tried once.”
He smiled sadly.
“I’m glad you failed.”
I opened the locket for the first time in years.
The tiny photograph inside had faded, but the two young faces were still recognizable.
He stared at it.
Then he covered his mouth with one hand.
“I searched,” he said.
“Not every day.
Not like some obsession.
But every few years, whenever there was a new way to look, I tried again.
Your old name disappeared.
I never knew you became Morrison.”
I looked back through the ballroom doors.
Fletcher was pretending to speak with another executive while watching us.
“I stopped looking,” I admitted.
The billionaire nodded.
“That was your right.”
“I thought you had moved on.”
“I did move on.
I built a life.
A company.
I became someone people write about in magazines.” He gave a quiet, humorless laugh.
“None of that meant I forgot you.”
Then he looked directly at me.
“When I said I still love you, I wasn’t asking you for anything tonight.”
I felt my throat tighten.
“I’m married.”
“I know.”
“My life is complicated.”
“I know that too.”
He paused.
“I only needed you to know that I didn’t disappear because you meant nothing.”
That sentence hurt more than the confession had.
