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I don’t want Stanley’s interest in my life. Really, I prefer his disinterest.

“That is generally how conversation works,” Nathaniel continues. “Two people speak. They exchange questions. They behave like normal human beings for the duration of a meal.”

Mr. Stanley slowly lowers his napkin. “She’s been brought here for my entertainment.”

The words land like a slap.

Entertainment.

Not guest.

Not companion.

Not woman.

Entertainment.

I look down at my plate. The salad blurs slightly.

Nathaniel glares at Stanley. “I would choose your next words carefully,” he says.

My nerves skitter. If Mr. Stanley says one more vile thing, Nathaniel Vexley will drag him from his chair and punch his jowls into next week.

Mr. Stanley’s lips part.

Nathaniel leans forward by a fraction.

Oh God.

I have to do something.

“Mr. Stanley,” I say quickly, too brightly, “you have a little—” I gesture vaguely toward my mouth.

He frowns and lifts his napkin.

Then burps into it.

The sound is so unexpected, so utterly disgusting, that the tension breaks in the strangest way possible. Someone at the table coughs. The woman across from me looks down so fast her necklace swings forward. Arthur Vexley smiles. Slightly.

I press my lips together so hard they hurt.

Do not laugh.

Do not gag.

Do not say anything.

Mr. Stanley lowers his napkin with no visible embarrassment. “Excuse me,” he says.

“Of course,” I manage.

My wineglass is empty.

Tragic.

A server appears then, thank God, and begins to clear the salad plates, including mine with half the salad still on it. I feel a small stab of resentment.

I liked that salad.