Third POVThe apartment smelled like garlic and rosemary when Ronan pushed open the door.Andrea was at the stove, stirring something in a stainless steel pan, her back to him. The kitchen island was set for three, white plates, cloth napkins folded into neat triangles, a small vase of fresh tulips in the center. Remy was curled on the living room couch, legs tucked under a blanket, eyes glued to the cartoon flashing across the television. The volume was low, the laugh track soft and rhythmic. From the hallway it looked perfect: domestic, warm, the kind of scene Andrea loved posting on her private Instagram with captions like *Grateful for my little family* or *Home is wherever we’re together*.Ronan hated how good she was at selling the lie.He dropped his keys in the bowl by the door. The clink was louder than it needed to be.Andrea didn’t turn around right away. She kept stirring, the wooden spoon scraping gently against the pan.“You’re late,” she said, voice light, almost plea
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