Chapter 2

Nora's POV

The night Preston brought Stella home, New York got its first snowfall of the winter.

I'd just set the cream of mushroom soup—the one I'd spent hours making—on the table when I heard the keypad lock click open.

The door opened, and a gust of icy wind and snow rushed in.

Preston stood in the doorway, snow dusting the shoulders of his coat. He was protectively holding a woman in his arms, cradling her carefully.

It was Stella.

"Nora, the heater in Stella's apartment broke. She's staying here tonight," Preston said as he bent down to help her change shoes.

He grabbed the pink soft-soled slippers I usually wore.

I watched her slip them on—they were clearly too big for her.

She shrank back awkwardly. "Preston, maybe I should just go to a hotel. I'm really imposing on Ms. Hayes."

"Hotels aren't safe. You've had a scare, and I don't feel right leaving you alone." Preston's voice was so gentle it practically dripped honey.

He looked up, and the moment his gaze landed on me, the warmth vanished, replaced by a flat, distant calm. "Change the sheets in the guest room. Stella has trouble sleeping in new places—bring her the latex pillow from the master bedroom."

I stood by the dining table, my fingers unconsciously gripping the edge of my apron.

Today was our fifth wedding anniversary.

His favorite dishes were laid out on the table, the red wine had been decanted, and even the candles were lit.

Preston finally seemed to notice the setup in the dining room.

He froze for a second, his brow furrowing slightly. A flicker of regret crossed his eyes, quickly replaced by a sense of entitlement.

"Sorry, something came up at the office, and picking up Stella took longer than expected." He shrugged off his coat and handed it to me, his tone tinged with exhaustion. "We'll make up the anniversary another day. Tonight, let's just leave it."

Over the past year, I'd heard countless lines like that.

Birthdays postponed. Weekend movies rescheduled. Promised trips put off.

And every broken promise had the same reason behind it.

—Stella.

Stella was his first love, and also the widow of his best friend.

Two years ago, that man died in a car accident, and on his deathbed he grabbed Preston's hand, begging him to take care of Stella.

Preston agreed.

From that point on, Stella became an unbridgeable chasm in our marriage.

"Okay," I heard my own voice echo through the empty living room, surprisingly calm.

I turned and walked into the master bedroom, taking out the latex pillow Preston had specifically had someone bring back from Paris.

When I handed it to Stella, she looked at me timidly. "Ms. Hayes, I'm really sorry. I didn't know today was your anniversary..."

"It's fine." I cut her off.

Preston walked over and naturally took the pillow, casually wrapping an arm around Stella's shoulder. "Go take a hot shower and get some rest."

He turned to me. "Find her a clean set of pajamas."

I opened the closet and pulled out a brand-new silk pajama set.

When Stella took them, her fingertips brushed against the back of my hand.

Her hand was cold, but mine was even colder.

The shower turned on in the bathroom.

Preston walked over to the dining table, glanced at the food, and grabbed a piece of foie gras with his fingers, popping it in his mouth.

"It's cold," he said, wiping his hands with a napkin. "Toss it. I'll have the housekeeper make something fresh tomorrow."

He turned and walked toward the study—his back straight, but radiating a cold detachment that kept the world at arm's length.

I stood there, staring at the carefully prepared dinner, and suddenly felt my stomach churn.

I scraped the food into the trash, piece by piece.

The red wine ran down the drain, like some kind of irreversible loss.

After cleaning the kitchen, I went back to the master bedroom.

Preston wasn't back yet.

I lay in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Preston wasn't always like this.

In the early years of our marriage, he spoiled me rotten.

I didn't like peanuts, and every time we ate out, he'd remind the server. My hands and feet were always cold in winter, and he'd always tuck my feet against his chest to warm them.

But somewhere along the way, all his attention shifted to Stella.

Stella was afraid of the dark. Stella couldn't sleep. Stella was emotionally fragile.

He gave all his patience and tenderness to that woman who "needed care," forgetting that his wife was also a living, breathing person—one who could hurt, who could be sad.

Soft footsteps came from outside the door.

I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep.

Preston pushed the door open and stood by the bed for a moment.

I could feel his gaze on my face, searching.

After a moment, he turned and left the room.

I opened my eyes and heard the guest bedroom door open next door, followed by Stella's low sobs and Preston's gentle soothing.

"Don't be scared, I'm here."

That one sentence was like a dull blade, slowly slicing through my heart.

I rolled over and buried my face in the blanket.

No tears came. I was just tired.

A bone-deep exhaustion.