The Invitation

The candles had burned down to short, crooked stumps by the time my husband came home.

I sat at the end of our long dining table, looking at two plates of food that had gone cold. Salmon. Roasted potatoes. The wine he liked, opened an hour ago so it could breathe. It had finished breathing a long time ago.

The front door opened at 10pm. I heard his shoes on the marble, slow and unbothered, like a man walking into a hotel and not his own home.

"You're still up," Christian said from the doorway.

"I made dinner."

He glanced at the table, then at his watch. He did not say sorry. He never did anymore.

"The meeting ran late," he said, loosening his tie. "You should have eaten without me."

He walked past me to set his keys down, and a sweet smell followed him. Jasmine and amber. I had never worn either.

"Your jacket smells like perfume."

"A client's wife," he said, not even blinking. "The elevator was crowded."

I let it go. I always let it go.

"It was our anniversary, Christian."

For a moment, he said nothing. I watched his face, hoping to see guilt. Six years ago, that face had made me believe in forever. Now it only looked tired of me.

"Right," he said at last. "I forgot."

Not even I'm sorry. Just a fact, tossed across the table like a coat he had no use for.

I stood up and picked up his plate, so my hands would have something to do. "You used to promise I would never feel alone in this marriage. Do you remember that?"

He sighed, the long, heavy sigh of a man dealing with a child. "I am tired, Rosalie."

"I know. I only want my husband back." My voice shook, and I hated it.

"People change."

"Then tell me what I did wrong."

He pulled out a chair and sat, rubbing his forehead. Then he reached into his jacket and slid a thick gold envelope across the table.

"What is this?"

"Open it."

The paper was heavy, edged in gold. Inside was a single card with elegant black letters.

THE MIRROR RETREAT. A private weekend for couples. One game. One chance to see your marriage clearly.

Below it was a date, two days away.

"A couples' retreat?" I asked.

“A friend recommended it. Several couples spend the weekend together, and the game is meant to test them. Couples swap partners for one night." He kept his eyes on the envelope. "They only explain the rest when you arrive. It shows you what you really want. People come back stronger."

"Which friend?"

"Does it matter?"

"Swap?" I repeated. "You want me to spend a night with another man?”

"It sounds worse than it is? It is only a game, to remind us of what we have." He finally looked at me. "Rosalie, I want to fix this, and right now this feels like the only way."

Something small and foolish bloomed in my chest. Hope. It can survive almost anything, even a forgotten anniversary.

"Who else is going?" I asked.

Christian did not answer. His eyes moved to the front door, as if he had been waiting for something.

The doorbell rang.

I went to open it. Juliette stood on the porch in a cream coat, her mascara streaked down her cheeks, her hair damp from the drizzle.

"Rosie," she whispered. "Please don't be angry. I did not know where else to go."

Juliette Hayes had been my best friend since university. She had held my hair when I was sick and cried at my wedding harder than I did. I pulled her inside without a second thought.

She hugged me, and I smelled jasmine and amber.

It was the same perfume that had followed Christian through the door. Why would my best friend smell like the perfume on my husband's jacket?

Then I shook the thought away. It had to be a coincidence. Half the women in the city probably wore it, and tonight Juliette was crying. I noticed the mismatch the way I notice a number that does not add up. Then I put it aside, because I did not want to be right.

She sat on the sofa and wiped her face. "It's Raphael. We barely speak anymore. He lives in his study, buried in Sinclair Group. Last night I asked if he even remembered why he married me, and he said, 'For convenience.'" Her voice cracked. "Like I was a parking space."

Christian did not ask what was wrong. He only stood by the window, watching her, like he already knew the answer.

"Our gold envelope came yesterday," she said, her eyes flicking to Christian before they came back to me. "Raphael barely looked at it. He said he would come if it stops me crying. But I cannot go without you."

"You want me to go?”

"I need you to." She grabbed my hands. "If it does not work, at least we tried. But if it does, maybe we both get our husbands back."

I looked at Christian. He had gone very still, watching me like a man waiting for a verdict.

"Rosalie," he said gently, and I realized he had not said my name that softly in months. "One weekend. If it does not help, I will never bring it up again."

"And if it does?"

"Then I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you."

I should have asked more questions. I should have asked why a man who forgot our anniversary suddenly had a gold invitation ready. I should have asked why both gold envelopes had come on the same day.

But I was tired of being alone in my own marriage. And when someone offers you the thing you want most, it is very hard to look for the knife behind it.

"Fine," I said. "I will go."

Juliette threw her arms around me. "Thank you. You are saving me."

Over her shoulder, Christian smiled. It was a small, warm, relieved smile, the one I had missed. I let myself believe it. But he was not looking at me. He was looking at her.

Later that night, Christian went upstairs to shower, and Juliette went to the guest room. I carried the wine glasses to the kitchen, humming for the first time in months.

On my way back, I heard Juliette in the hallway outside the guest room. She was whispering into her phone. Upstairs, the shower had been running for twenty minutes. Longer than Christian had ever needed.

"She said yes," she breathed. "Exactly like you said she would."

I stopped. Then I smiled. She was telling Raphael the good news. Of course she was. It was odd that Raphael would have guessed my answer, but I was too happy to ask.

I went to bed that night happier than I had been in years. I did not know that the man on the other end of that call was not Raphael.

I was already losing the game, and I had not even been told the rules.