The days after the confession settled into something that felt like waiting for a storm you know is coming.
Ella woke up every morning to the same quiet routine. Coffee already brewing when she walked into the kitchen. Two mugs on the island. Alex gone before she even poured hers. A short text from Rebecca sometimes—schedule updates, hospital appointment reminders—but nothing from him.
He came home late. Always late. Suit rumpled, tie loosened, eyes tired. He would pour water or whiskey, sit in the armchair across from the couch where she usually ended up, and they’d talk.
Not about anything big.
The weather.
Some deal he was closing.
The new restaurant opening downtown.
Small things.
Safe things.
But every night the conversation stretched a little longer. Every night he sat a lit
