YOU DON'T HAVE TO MOVE

The first time Alexander Moretti saved my life, I was barefoot beneath his desk, holding my breath while my husband explained why I deserved to be afraid.

"Mr. Moretti, there's something about my wife you need to know."

Derek's voice had changed. The warmth he used at dinner had disappeared, replaced by the patient, measured tone that made strangers trust him and made me search for an exit.

Above me, Alexander remained silent.

I could see his polished shoes, the carved walnut legs of the desk, and a strip of gray carpet darkened by the blood from my heel. My knees hurt. One shoulder pressed against a drawer. I had tucked the torn hem of my green dress around my bare feet so it wouldn't show.

Twenty minutes earlier, I had been standing beside Derek in a ballroom downstairs, smiling at people whose names I would be expected to remember on the drive home.

He had brought me to a business dinner because, he said, a married man looked more reliable. He had chosen my dress, corrected my lipstick, and reminded me not to mention that I no longer worked.

When an older woman asked whether I had children, I said no.

"We're waiting until Emily feels a little more settled," Derek told her, squeezing my wrist beneath the tablecloth.

The woman nodded sympathetically. I watched a waiter pour wine and wondered how long I could hold my smile.

Later, in a service corridor, Derek asked why I had embarrassed him.

"I only answered her question."

"You answered it like you were unhappy."

"I'm tired. Could we go home?"

He took my phone from the small purse I carried. When I reached for it, he pushed me against a wall. A server coming around the corner startled, dropped a tray, and apologized to him.

Not to me. To him.

That was how these things usually happened.

Derek turned to wave the server away. I stepped out of my broken shoe, caught the other one in my hand, and ran.

I didn't choose Alexander's office. I chose an open door at the end of a quiet hallway, a room with somewhere to hide. The man behind the desk looked up as I stumbled inside.

"Please," I whispered. "My husband."

He glanced at my wrist, then past me toward the hallway.

"Close the door, Marco."

I hadn't waited to learn whether he meant to help. I had crawled beneath the desk before my legs could give way.

Now Derek was inside, and the door was closed again.

"My wife has psychological problems," he said.

There it was. The familiar beginning.

"She's been unstable for months. Paranoid. Confused. Sometimes she invents things that never happened."

I pressed my fist against my lips.

Three years of marriage, and he could still make my stomach drop with one sentence. Once, I had tried explaining myself to a neighbor. Derek had arrived carrying flowers and an apologetic smile. By the time he finished talking, the woman was suggesting I get more sleep.

"She probably told you I hurt her."

Alexander answered quietly. "She told me you were her husband."

Derek laughed. "Well, that's a relief. At least she remembers that much."

Nobody joined him.

Leather creaked above me as Alexander shifted in his chair.

"Tell me something, Derek. Why is your wife hiding under my desk?"

For a moment, I forgot to breathe. He knew exactly where I was, and he had said it aloud. I looked toward the gap between the desk and the floor, expecting Derek's hand.

"Because she's having another episode."

Another episode. That was what Derek called it when I cried, when I asked about a missing bank statement, when I wanted to know why our bedroom door locked from the outside.

"She's frightened of me right now," he continued. "But once I get her home, she'll calm down."

"What happens when she gets home?"

"Excuse me?"

"You said she'll calm down. I'm asking how."

The silence frightened me more than shouting would have. I could imagine Derek's expression: his smile held in place, the muscle in his cheek beginning to twitch.

"Mr. Moretti, our private marital issues aren't your concern."

"Then you shouldn't have brought them into my office."

Someone moved near the door. I heard a jacket brush against the wall.

"Look, I appreciate your concern, but I know my wife."

"Then you should know whether she's afraid of you."

Alexander wasn't arguing. That unsettled me. Derek understood arguments. He could turn them into a contest and keep going until the other person said something he could use.

This man was asking questions and waiting for answers.

"Emily," Derek called suddenly.

My whole body jerked.

"Sweetheart, come out. You're embarrassing yourself."

My left knee moved before I could stop it. I began crawling toward the edge of the desk because his voice had meant obedience for so long that my body no longer waited for permission from my mind.

Then Alexander lowered a hand beside his chair.

He didn't grab me. He held it there, palm open.

"Emily. Look at me."

His voice was low enough that Derek couldn't hear the words.

I raised my head.

He leaned sideways. Dark hair, broad shoulders beneath a charcoal suit, a small scar near one eyebrow. His face was younger than I expected, severe and unfamiliar. I had heard Alexander Moretti's name at dinner. I had heard men lower their voices around it.

Now he was looking at me without impatience.

"You don't have to move," he whispered.

I waited for the condition. Unless. But. As long as.

It didn't come.

"Do you want to go with him?"

I shook my head so slightly I wasn't sure he saw.

He nodded once and straightened.

"My answer hasn't changed, Derek."

"She's my wife."

"She's not your property."

"That's not what I meant."

"Then stop speaking as though it is."

I sat back against the drawers. My heel throbbed, but for the first time since I had run down the corridor, I noticed something besides the pain.

My hand wasn't reaching for Derek anymore.

I had said no without saying it aloud, and someone had understood.

Derek exhaled. I knew that sound too. It meant he was finished pretending that kindness would work.

"Fine. Since you want to involve yourself, perhaps you should know she's been stealing from me."

I stared at Alexander's open hand, still resting beside his chair.

"Large amounts of money," Derek said. "Confidential business documents. And if you're going to protect her, you should understand exactly what you're protecting."