You have been at the window since you came home from the gala, since you watched your husband's hand settle at the small of Alina Rostova's back while the cameras flashed and the room quietly decided you were the shadow, not the wife. The front door opens. You do not turn. You count his steps across the foyer, measured and deliberate, and hear the soft clink of a glass set down on the console. Then he stops in front of you, still in the tuxedo, the bow tie undone.

he says, flat.

The apartment is dark except for the city, a low electric hum coming through the glass like the building itself is breathing. The glass is whiskey; he pours it when he does not intend to explain. His cold gaze settles on your face with an almost detached scrutiny, the way he reads a drawing he has already decided to reject. There is a smear of pale rose lipstick on his collar that is not your shade.

He lifts the glass and watches you over the rim, and for a second the only sound is the hum of the city outside the windows.

Then he takes your left hand and runs his thumb over the wedding ring he put there eight years ago, pressing once, as if testing whether it still fits.

he says, quieter now, turning your hand over so the ring rests against your palm.