The one Grant had bought me in Paris.
His hand rested on her thigh.
She was holding a glass from the crystal set my grandmother had left me.
They looked comfortable.
Not nervous.
Not ashamed.
Comfortable.
That was the detail that broke something inside me.
This was not their first time.
They had routines.
They had private jokes.
They had already learned how to move around my home as though I were the intruder.
My fingers closed around the bedroom door.
I wanted to throw it open.
I wanted to scream until the walls shook.
I wanted Mason standing beside me so he could see exactly what his wife had done.
But before I married Grant, I had spent twelve years surviving hostile boardrooms, collapsing acquisitions and men who smiled while trying to take control of companies they had not built.
I knew the difference between an emotional reaction and a useful one.
So I stepped away.
Neither of them saw me.
I drove to an all-night diner near the interstate and sat in a corner booth until sunrise.
I cried so quietly that the waitress pretended not to notice.
At six in the morning, she refilled my coffee and placed a slice of pie in front of me.
“On the house,” she said.
