Chapter 1

It was almost 1:00 am by the time my husband, Matthew Lowe, got home.

He was lugging his cello case, still dressed in his black performance shirt.

It wasn't until he stepped up behind me and caught sight of "Viremont" on my screen that he froze.

"You went to Viremont today?"

"Yeah."

My fingers glided across the trackpad as I deleted a duplicate audio annotation. "Last-minute assignment to interview a conductor."

"When did you get there?" Matthew asked.

"Afternoon."

He paused for a beat. "Why didn't you come see me?"

"I was busy with work. I left as soon as the interview wrapped up," I replied without looking up.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his tense shoulders visibly relax.

It was as if he'd finally confirmed that I hadn't set foot in that concert hall and hadn't seen what happened after the show let out.

He set his cello case against the wall and rubbed his wrist. "I played too long today. My hand's cramping up again."

He sat next to me as if it were the most natural thing in the world and held out his right hand. "Give me a massage, then get the medicinal bath ready."

For the past eight years, this had been our unspoken routine.

At his worst, Matthew couldn't even hold a glass of water steady with his right hand.

To learn how to massage it properly, I had consulted a physical therapist and mapped out every muscle group in a notebook.

Which finger had stiffened, where to press, how bad the pain was, and which medication to switch to… I used to know what he needed the second he closed his eyes.

But tonight, I just looked at his hand. There was a fresh red friction mark on his fingertip—the kind left behind by hours of continuous playing.

Three hours.

Just to put his assistant, Evie Stewart, to sleep, he had played the piece he wrote for me over and over again in an empty concert hall for three hours.

That was why he was tired.

That was why his hand hurt.

And that was why, after coming home, he expected me to ease the pain.

I shut my laptop. "Have your team handle it."

Matthew's hand hovered in the air. "What?"

"Your touring team has a therapist," I said, packing my laptop into my bag. "From now on, have them massage you after a performance."

He stared at me with a frown. "Hannah, are you still upset over those ten minutes?"

I didn't answer.

He pulled his hand back, a weary edge creeping into his tone. "You've seen my schedule lately. It's not like I didn't want to spend time with you."

"Yeah."

"Next week then." Like resolving a pointless spat, he took a moment to think and offered what he clearly considered a generous compromise. "I'll clear 20 minutes for you next week. Deal?"

20 minutes.

Twice as much as the original ten.

Was I supposed to be happy?

In the past, I would have been.

I would have cleared my entire evening a week in advance, called off all my work, picked a nice restaurant, and repeatedly checked to make sure he didn't have a last-minute show.

Even if all I got in the end was 20 minutes, I would have comforted myself thinking he'd done his best.

But just a few hours ago, sitting in an empty concert hall, he had played for Evie for three straight hours.

She had been asleep in the front row.

Afraid the silence would wake her, he had endured the ache in his wrist and repeated the melody again and again.

Any single rendition lasted longer than 20 minutes.

It turned out that the time I had to beg a whole week for was not enough for him to lull another woman to sleep.

I lowered my eyes and said nothing.

Matthew waited a few seconds.

Perhaps he took my silence as agreement. The tension in his face softened. "Don't make the bath too hot. Just like usual."

With that, he turned and walked into the shower.

The sound of running water echoed out moments later.

I didn't reach for the bath salts, nor did I kneel by the tub to adjust the water temperature like I used to.

Instead, I reopened my laptop and logged into the company portal.

The transfer confirmation for Noveria had been sitting there quietly for hours. It was a three-year assignment. I'd be leaving in seven days.

At the bottom of the page was a blank signature field.

Matthew's voice drifted out from the shower. "Hannah, is the water ready?"

I held the mouse and hovered over the confirm button for a second before clicking it.

A prompt popped up on the screen. "Application Submitted."

I stared at the screen, letting his call go unanswered for the first time.