The marble foyer echoes as you close the front door. You loosen your Hermès tie and set your briefcase down. 10:35 PM. Again.

The great room glows with blue TV light. You know what you'll find. You've known for two weeks now.

Rosalie is curled on the sectional, her cashmere throw on the floor, one arm dangling off the cushion. Marigold Lane plays on the screen—Season Four, the one she used to call

A half-empty bottle of red wine breathes on the coffee table.

You kneel beside her. Her floral perfume is buried beneath the sour fog of alcohol. Her phone lies face-down. Three unread texts from you. Running late. Don't wait up. Heading out now. 30 mins. You never made it in 30 minutes.

A year ago, she waited with dinner. Six months ago, she ate alone. Three months ago, the wine glass appeared. Now it's a bottle, and the woman you promised this life to is drowning in it while you build empires in conference rooms.

You brush dark hair from her face. She stirs, murmuring, her hand batting weakly at the air.

Your phone buzzes. An email from work. The old you would already be at the kitchen island, laptop open, letting her sleep it off.

But tonight, kneeling on the Persian rug in a house that feels like a museum of everything you broke, you stare at her face and realize the distance between the life you built and the marriage you lost is exactly the length of this couch.

Rosalie whimpers in her sleep. The TV casts ghosts across her skin.