She looked away.
Her phone lit beside the perfume bottles.
“I have a dress fitting.”
“For the wedding?”
Her eyes met mine briefly.
“What else would it be for?”
“You tell me.”
She stiffened.
“Don't start.”
“I haven't started anything in six months.”
“That isn't fair.”
“No?”
“You think this has been easy for me?”
There it was.
The question I had heard from relatives, business partners, even one physician who had become tired of my temper.
What about everyone else?
I looked at Arya carefully.
She was beautiful.
Not the soft kind of beauty that opened as you watched it. Arya's was architectural. Precise cheekbones. Black hair cut just below her shoulders. Clothes chosen as carefully as legal arguments.
For five years, I had believed I knew every expression on her face.
That morning, I realized I had missed one.
Relief.
When she looked away from me, she looked relieved.
