POV: Rosalind
At home, we shared a late meal in silence that felt almost comfortable.
Daniel had ordered from the Italian place I liked—the one that made gnocchi the way my mother used to, before she stopped calling after the wedding. He'd even remembered to ask for extra sage butter. Small mercies from a man who dealt in large sins.
I pushed food around my plate, watching him across the table. He'd loosened his tie, rolled his sleeves to his elbows. Without the armor of his three-piece suit, he looked older. Tired. Almost human.
"Luca's doing well at university," I said, breaking the quiet.
Daniel glanced up. "His grades are excellent."
"I meant socially. He seems... different lately. More independent."
"He's twenty-one. Independence is the point." But there was something in Daniel's voice—pride, maybe, or concern. With him, it was hard to tell the difference.
I set down my fork. "He's growing up faster than I expected."
"They all do." Daniel took a sip of wine. "One day they're asking for help with homework, the next they're asking to be involved in your work."
There it was. The real conversation hiding beneath the pleasant one.
"Does he still come by the winery often?" Daniel asked, too casually.
"Less than before." I felt the worry settle in my chest like a stone. "Used to stop by twice a week. Now it's maybe once a month. If that."
"He's busy."
"Or he's avoiding me."
Daniel's jaw tightened. "Why would he avoid you?"
Because he walked in on me standing too close to another man this morning, I thought. Because he has his father's eyes and his father's instinct for reading situations. Because twenty-one is old enough to understand what he saw, even if he's too smart to say it out loud.
"I don't know," I lied. "Maybe I'm imagining it."
We finished eating in silence. I cleared the plates while Daniel poured himself another scotch. The kitchen felt too big, too empty. This house had always felt that way—twelve rooms for three people, then two people, now just echoes and expensive furniture.
When I returned to the living room, Daniel was on the couch, loosening the last button of his shirt. He looked at me like he used to, back when we were young and stupid and thought expensive things could substitute for actual intimacy.
"Come here," he said.
I crossed to him, let him pull me down beside him. His hand found my waist, settled there with a weight that felt familiar. Comfortable. Not urgent—not the way it used to be when we were still pretending passion could save us. This was something else. Muscle memory. The shape of a marriage worn smooth by time.
He kissed me slowly, openly. I tasted scotch and resignation. His thumb traced circles against my hip bone, and I wondered if he could feel how thin I'd gotten. If he noticed anything about me anymore beyond whether I smiled at the right moments during his events.
This was what we'd become. Two people going through motions perfected over twenty-two years. His hand knew exactly where to rest. My body knew exactly how to lean into him. We were a choreographed piece, flawless in execution, empty in meaning. I could have been anyone. He could have been anyone. And maybe that was the point—maybe that's what happened when you stayed married long enough. You stopped being people and became roles. Husband. Wife. The shape of what love was supposed to look like from the outside.
"Rosalind," he murmured against my mouth.
"Don't," I said quietly. "Don't say things you don't mean."
"I mean it."
"You mean you're tired and you want comfort. That's different."
He pulled back, studied my face. "When did you become so cynical?"
"When I married a man who turned my winery into a front for whatever the hell you actually do."
The moment shattered. Daniel's hand dropped from my waist. He reached for his scotch, but before his fingers closed around the glass, his phone buzzed on the coffee table.
He stared at it. Didn't move.
It buzzed again.
"Answer it," I said.
"Rosalind—"
"Answer it, Daniel. You're going to anyway."
He picked up the phone, pressed it to his ear. "Yes."
Silence. Daniel listened, his face going carefully blank the way it did when information was being delivered that couldn't be discussed in front of me. His free hand clenched once, released. His eyes fixed on a point across the room.
"When?" he asked.
More silence.
"I'll handle it."
He hung up. Sat there for a moment, the phone still in his hand, something working behind his eyes that looked almost like fear. Daniel didn't do fear. Daniel did control. Calculation. Cold precision.
But right now, he looked afraid.
I watched him try to compose himself, watched the micro-expressions flash across his face before he could lock them down. His breathing had changed—shorter, shallower. His knuckles were white around the phone. In twenty-two years of marriage, I'd seen Daniel angry, cold, dismissive, even occasionally tender. But I'd never seen him scared. The wrongness of it made my stomach clench. Whatever that phone call had been about, it wasn't routine. It wasn't another problem he could throw money at or clean up with his usual surgical efficiency. This was different. This was personal.
"You have to leave again," I said. Not a question.
"Yes."
"Now."
"Yes."
I stood, put distance between us. "It's past midnight, Daniel."
"I know."
"You just got home."
"I know."
"And you're leaving again anyway."
He stood, buttoned his shirt with quick, practiced movements. Found his jacket draped over the chair. Slipped it on like armor. When he turned back to me, he was Daniel Pierce again—untouchable, unreachable, already halfway out the door.
"Is this about Luca?" I asked.
The question stopped him. His hand froze on his car keys. He looked at me then, really looked, and I saw something crack in that perfect facade. Something that might have been honesty, if I still knew what that looked like on him.
"Everything I do is."