POV: Rosalind
I returned home just after sunrise and showered before Daniel woke, scrubbing my skin longer than necessary.
The water ran hot. Almost scalding. I stood under the spray until my skin turned pink, washing away salt air and Theo's touch and the smell of the ocean. Washing away evidence of the hour I'd stolen. The drive back had been quiet, empty roads and growing light and the weight of carrying secrets from both men pressing down on my chest until I could barely breathe.
I dried off, dressed in yesterday's clothes—the ones I'd supposedly worn to bed—and went downstairs to start coffee. My hands were steady. My face was calm. I was very good at this performance. Twenty-two years of marriage had taught me how to smooth over complications, how to present a version of myself that asked no difficult questions and required no difficult answers.
Daniel came into the kitchen fully dressed at seven-fifteen.
Suit already on. Tie knotted. Hair still damp from his own shower. He looked like he'd slept eight hours in a comfortable bed, not like he'd been out handling threats at three in the morning. But then, Daniel was good at this performance too. Maybe better than me.
He poured coffee for both of us without asking, added cream to mine the way I liked it, and set the mug in front of me before kissing my cheek as if nothing unusual had happened.
"Sleep well?" he asked.
"Well enough." The lie came easily. "You?"
"I managed a few hours." He took his seat across from me, sipped his coffee. "Luca texted last night. Said his work deadlines are piling up. He's thinking about moving closer to the city to cut down on commute time."
"That makes sense. The drive from university is brutal during rush hour."
"He's looking at apartments in the financial district. Asked if I knew any landlords who might be flexible on lease terms."
We talked like this for ten minutes. Steady voices. Normal topics. Parents discussing their son's practical concerns about housing and work-life balance. Nothing about the Hale family or offshore accounts or people watching us. Nothing about the fact that Daniel had woken me at three AM to teach me survival protocols. Nothing about the fact that I'd driven an hour to meet my lover while Daniel was out handling whatever crisis he wouldn't name.
Just coffee and conversation and the careful maintenance of ordinary life.
"Are you working at the winery today?" Daniel asked.
"Inventory morning. Small private tasting this afternoon."
"Good. Keep things routine." He set down his cup. "Routine is important right now."
"Because routine looks innocent?"
"Because routine is predictable. And predictable is manageable." His eyes met mine. Something in his expression suggested this wasn't casual advice. This was instruction. "People notice patterns. If your patterns change suddenly—if you close early, cancel events, start avoiding certain guests—that draws attention."
"So I just keep doing what I've always done."
"Exactly." He reached across the table, covered my hand with his. "Like nothing's wrong. Like everything's normal. Like we're just a married couple having coffee before work."
"Aren't we?"
"Of course we are." But the way he said it suggested we both knew better.
I pulled my hand back, wrapped both around my coffee cup. "Did you sleep at all last night? Really?"
Daniel's jaw tightened. "A few hours. Maybe."
"That's not enough."
"Sleep is inefficient right now." He stood, moved to the sink, rinsed his cup with careful precision. "Too many things need attention. Too many variables to track. Sleep feels like surrendering control when I can't afford to surrender anything."
"You're going to collapse if you keep this up."
"I'll collapse when it's over. One way or another." He dried his hands, turned to face me. "Actually, there's something I should mention. Someone asked about your winery permits and guest lists yesterday."
My stomach dropped. "What?"
"Routine curiosity, according to them. Said they were researching local businesses for investment opportunities." Daniel's tone was casual, but his eyes were sharp. Watchful. "Asked about your licensing, your client base, whether you host private events that aren't publicly advertised."
"That's not routine."
"No. It's not." He moved closer, leaned against the counter. "But it's also not unexpected. If people are building a file on me, they'll look at everything connected to me. The house. The company. The family. Your winery."
"What did you tell them?"
"Nothing. I wasn't the one they asked." He paused. "They went through the city planning office. Official channels. Requested public records that anyone can access. But the questions were specific enough to suggest they already know the answers and just want to see if the official story matches what they think is really happening."
My hands felt cold. "Who was it?"
"Someone who shouldn't care about wine gallery permits." Daniel pushed off the counter, crossed to where I sat. "Someone connected to people who've been asking other questions about other things for the past few weeks."
"The Hales."
"Or their intermediaries. Hard to tell the difference when everyone's being so careful." He cupped my face between his hands, looked at me with an intensity that made my breath catch. "This is why routine matters. Why you need to keep running the winery exactly as you always have. Because they're watching to see if we change our patterns. If we look scared. If we look like we're hiding something."
"We are hiding something."
"They don't need to know that." He kissed me—not the casual cheek kiss from earlier, but something deeper. More urgent. Like he was trying to communicate something he couldn't say out loud. When he pulled back, he held my face just a second too long. Long enough that I felt the weight of whatever he wasn't telling me. Long enough that I understood this conversation was a warning wrapped in casual morning talk.
"I have to go," he said.
"Will you be home tonight?"
"I don't know. Don't wait up." He released me, grabbed his briefcase from the counter. "And Rosalind? If anyone asks you about the winery—permits, guests, anything—you answer honestly. Nothing to hide. Just a business owner doing business. Understand?"
"I understand."
He kissed me once more. Then he was gone.
I sat in the kitchen with cold coffee and the sound of his car pulling away and the realization that someone was investigating my winery the same week Daniel had started teaching me security protocols and Theo had sent me "ready" in the middle of the night.
The walls were closing in. I just couldn't see which direction they were coming from yet.