The offer

I downed my third glass of wine, letting the burn distract me as I sat there, waiting for Richard to get home.

My first instinct when he walked through the door was to let it all out—yell, accuse, demand answers. But I held back. I told myself I’d stay calm, rational. So I waited. Waited until after dinner to bring it up.

He was still working through his steak, having already cleaned off the pasta, and I stayed quiet, watching his fork scrape the last bite off the plate. Only when his dish was completely bare and he leaned back with a satisfied sigh did I finally speak.

“That was good,” he said, wiping his mouth before draining his glass of water.

I looked at him for a beat, then cleared my throat. “I called the school’s treasurer yesterday. Wanted to check on how things were going with Astor.”

His eyes flicked to me. “And?”

“He said we’re surviving. Barely.” I paused. “Haven’t you been investing?”

“I have.”

“Little by little, I was told.”

“Just enough.”

My fingers curled into fists.