At two in the morning, I woke to cold sheets and the faint sound of my husband’s voice slipping under the bedroom door like smoke. For a few seconds I thought it was only a dream, the kind that makes your heart race before your mind catches up.

Then I heard him clearly from the study down the hall, speaking low and amused to someone on speakerphone. “She has no idea, she’s naive, she always has been.”

I sat up so fast the room tilted around me, and the digital clock glowed 2:03 a.m. in harsh red numbers. The space beside me where Julian Mercer should have been was empty and cool, which frightened me more than his words.

It meant the betrayal had already been awake before I was.

I walked barefoot down the hallway in my pale pink robe, pressing one hand against the wall because my knees suddenly refused to trust me. The study door was nearly closed, but not enough to hide what came next.