I was absentmindedly folding laundry, when I heard the soft click of the front door. My chest tightened immediately—not from surprise, not entirely—but from the way my body seemed to remember him before my mind could catch up. I’d been expecting him home later, later than this, and yet here he was.I froze as footsteps approached, measured, deliberate, echoing faintly through the hallway. Every instinct I had told me to prepare for confrontation, for tension, for questions. But what happened next wasn’t what I expected.“Lily,” his voice came from the doorway. Smooth, calm, but with that unmistakable weight to it. “Come into the study.”I hesitated, hand still on the folded shirt, my stomach knotting. I couldn’t read him—not tonight. Not after Philadelphia, not after everything. But the quiet authority in his voice left no room for argument.I walked down the hall, my feet clicking softly against the hardwood. The study door was open, light spilling into the hall, warm and steady. He
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