The private elevator opens directly into the penthouse, and for the first time in three days, you almost wish it hadn't.

Five minutes ago, Burkett had been standing behind you in the elevator with one hand settled at your waist, laughing about the sunburn he'd managed to catch in the Ossory Cays despite spending most of the weekend beneath an umbrella. Your suitcase still has a luggage tag from Port Ashline looped round the handle. His overnight bag is thrown over one shoulder.

It had been a perfect Valentine's weekend.

Then you hear a woman's voice from inside your home.

You stop.

Burkett stops behind you.

There are two expensive-looking suitcases by the entry console. Neither belongs to you.

Before you can ask, a woman turns the corner from the kitchen carrying one of your wineglasses.

Bare legs. Platinum-blonde hair.

And Burkett's old crimson Hollenden hoodie hanging halfway down her thighs.

Honora Brookhouse.

Of course.

She smiles the instant she sees Burkett. Not you.

She crosses the room like she's been waiting for him to come home to her.

Burkett's expression changes. Just slightly. Enough.

You turn your head toward him.

Honora says his middle name with the easy familiarity of someone who's been doing it since boarding school. Everyone else calls Winfield Burkett Whitbourne ‘Winn.’ Honora has called him Burkett for fifteen years.

Burkett exhales through his nose.

Your stomach drops.

Honora looks between the two of you and gives a small laugh.

She says it lightly. Almost fondly.

Burkett puts his bag down.

Honora corrects him, taking another sip of wine.

Burkett glances at her.

Honora gives him a quick smile. Something old passes between them.

Then Burkett looks back at you.

You stare at the luggage. Then at the hoodie. Then at your husband.

Honora answers before Burkett can.

Burkett rubs the back of his neck.

Honora leans one hip against the kitchen island. The penthouse kitchen island. Your kitchen island.

she says, as if you're already being unreasonable.

You look at her.

She smiles. Warm. Polite. Perfectly composed.

Burkett's parents have adored Honora. His mother once called her ‘good stock’ over Christmas dinner, which apparently wasn't horrifying enough for anyone else at that table.

Honora had only laughed and said,

Burkett's father nearly choked on his scotch laughing. His mother loved her even more after that.

Honora sets the wineglass down.

Your gaze drops to the HOLLENDEN lettering across her chest. Burkett wore that hoodie in half his college photographs. You haven't seen it once in your entire marriage.

Honora notices where you're looking. Her smile widens.

She pulls lightly at the hem.

She looks at him like the answer should have been obvious.

Then she looks back at you.

Burkett steps closer to you.

Honora picks up her wine again.

A beat. Then, as if remembering something completely ordinary:

Burkett blinks.

Your head turns slowly toward her.

Honora notices.

She looks genuinely confused by the question. Then she glances at Burkett.

Not at you. At Burkett.

Your husband hesitates.

Honora's expression softens immediately.

There it is. Burkett looks at you. And somehow, impossibly, you already know which one of you is going to be asked to compromise.

That was the first night. Honora’s friends came over, six of them instead of the five she had mentioned. Someone opened the champagne Burkett had been saving, someone else put music on loud enough that you could hear it from the bedroom, and Honora spent most of the evening curled into the corner of your sectional while Burkett sat beside her telling old boarding-school stories.

She cried twice, laughed three times, and somehow managed to make every moment of your irritation look cruel. Whenever you seemed annoyed, Honora noticed immediately and became sweeter.

Then, before you could answer, she would glance at Burkett with a wounded little smile.

Burkett spent the night reassuring her. You spent the night looking unreasonable.

That was Day One.

A month later, Honora is still here.

Her suitcases disappeared sometime during the second week, not because she left, but because she unpacked. There are platinum-blonde hairs in Burkett's bathroom sink now. Her skincare has colonized half the guest bath and somehow migrated into yours. Three pairs of heels live beside the front door, her dry cleaning comes upstairs with yours, the staff know her coffee order, and the doorman recognizes her friends.

Somewhere along the way, "a few days" became "until I figure things out," and you've heard that sentence so many times you could scream.

Tonight, you are standing in the kitchen looking at a dinner you spent nearly two hours making when Burkett walks in. Honora follows him a moment later wearing Burkett's old crimson Hollenden hoodie again, as if it has become part of her permanent wardrobe.

She drops her handbag on the counter and looks at him.

You stop moving. Burkett looks at the stove, then at you, and only then does Honora follow his gaze and seem to notice the dinner.

She pauses for half a second, then gives you a small apologetic smile.

Burkett rubs his jaw.

She looks at him rather than you.

Honora's brows lift.

She finally turns to you, still calm, still pleasant.

Your grip tightens on the serving spoon. Burkett says your name quietly, using that tone that means don't start, and Honora hears it too.

You stare at her. Honora sighs like this is exhausting for her.

Your gaze flicks to the wine rack. Three bottles are missing.

She blinks.

Honora stares at you as if you've said something completely irrational, then gives one short, incredulous laugh.

Honora's expression shifts. Just slightly. Now she looks hurt.

Burkett exhales.

She lifts one hand.

You already hate what comes next.

She turns to Burkett.

There it is.

Burkett looks at you, and you stare back at him.

Honora looks genuinely confused. Then she glances around the penthouse.

Silence settles over the kitchen. Burkett's head turns toward her.

You feel something inside you snap, and Honora notices your expression immediately.

She looks at Burkett again.

Your whole body goes still. Burkett does too, and Honora realizes a second too late that she has said far too much.

You look at your husband.

Burkett closes his eyes for half a second.

You laugh, but it doesn't sound like you.

Honora's mouth tightens.

Her eyes flick to Burkett. That is answer enough.

Burkett steps closer.

Your head turns.

Neither of them answers immediately. Burkett looks between you and Honora, jaw tight, then finally says, "Enough." His voice is controlled but firm.

He steps closer to you first.

For one brief, beautiful second, relief hits you.

Burkett cuts her off.

Honora's face changes immediately. She looks down at the floor, her voice going small.

Burkett turns toward her.

You answer before he can.

Silence.

Honora looks at Burkett.

Burkett exhales.

Your stomach drops.

He looks back at you.

Burkett's expression hardens.

Honora looks wounded.

He says it instantly. Too instantly.

Honora looks at him. You do too. Burkett rubs a hand over his face.

Burkett lowers his voice.

Honora reaches for her handbag.

Burkett catches her lightly by the wrist.

She looks down at his hand, then up at him, then over at you. For one uncomfortable second, the room shifts again. Somehow, in your own home, you are the outsider.

Burkett lets go of her wrist.

Honora gives you one last apologetic look, the kind that somehow makes you feel like the cruel one again.

Burkett closes his eyes.

You stare at both of them.

Honora's voice softens.

He looks at her.

And now you have to decide whether you want to hear his answer.