I set the table myself that morning.I always did on Sundays. It was one of those rituals I had built early in the marriage — something to do with my hands, something to make the house feel like it belonged to me in at least this one small way. White linen, ironed to a blade's edge. Crystal glasses buffed until they fractured the light into cold prisms. Roses from the garden, pale and already beginning to bruise at the edges, arranged in the blue vase Damien's mother had given us on our wedding day.I had chosen that vase deliberately this morning. I don't know why. Some part of me, I think, already knew.I sat at my end of the table — my end, as though the six feet between us had always been a border rather than a marriage — and I watched Isla Cheng eat my food.She laughed at something Damien said. She always laughed at what Damien said. Head tipped back, throat long and exposed, fingers trailing slowly across his forearm like she was signing her name on it. Like she had already sig
Last Updated : 2026-04-28 Read more