The silver spoon felt heavy in my hand, the metal vibrating slightly as I stirred the broth. The rich, oceanic scent of the bouillabaisse, which had seemed like a triumph in the kitchen, now felt cloying and thick, clinging to the back of my throat. Across from me, Jason ate with a slow, predatory satisfaction. His movements were fluid and relaxed, a stark contrast to the rigid tension holding my own spine together. Every time he shifted in his chair, my ribcage ached where the cold, hard edge of the USB drive pressed against my skin—a constant, biting reminder of the theft.
I forced myself to take a sip of wine, the crisp white liquid washing away the taste of salt and deception. "I was thinking," I said, keeping my voice light and melodic, the perfect pitch of a wife whose only concern
