I stared
at her.
Two years.
While I was signing deals and giving interviews, Emma had been quietly surviving in the house we had promised would be her sanctuary.
“I should have known,” I said.
“Yes,” she replied.
There was no cruelty in it.
Only exhaustion.
I bowed my head.
“I’m sorry.”
She didn’t rush to comfort me. Some part of me had expected her to. The old Emma would have reached for my hand immediately, trying to ease my guilt before I had fully felt it.
This Emma stayed still.
And I was strangely grateful.
Because maybe this was where we had to begin again—not with easy forgiveness, but with honesty.
Near dawn, Emma fell asleep on the sofa with a blanket around her shoulders. I didn’t wake her. I sat by the window and reviewed the documents she had saved.
There were patterns.
Transfers routed through consulting firms.
