There was a beat where Thomasina glowered at him, rather than responding — she was running through the facts as she had them, and the scenarios. 1. Her husband was having an affair with the prima ballerina, whose 2. daughter was one of Sina's patients. This was an indignity. 3. She had not been this angry, genuinely angry, at him in years — and 4. she did not want the general public to know it.

She still considered him, the moment stretching. They had the house in Mayfair. There was the house in Galway. She did not want to go to Galway, where his family was, and going to her own family's home was out of the question. Whatever he had wanted to do here tonight, Sina had interrupted it — and if he was offering to take her home, then she was still more important than the fucking ballerina.

In seeing her, he had ruined the plans she had been half-formulating before he turned around — smashing every piece of glass he had in his office, barring the door to her rooms and waiting for him to figure out what she knew. This was much worse, because now she was just suffocated in the moment, the ballet pressing in around her, feeling like a scorned woman.

5. She had no desire to watch that woman pirouette across the stage again.

"Take me home," Sina spat.