Chapter 3

George spun around. His phone slipped from his hand and hit the floor.

"When did you get up?"

"Right when you were about to reply to her."

He bent down to grab the phone and pressed the power button before he'd even straightened up. Screen went dark.

"I wasn't planning to go see her."

"Then why haven't you replied?"

"I was figuring out what to say."

"Figuring out how to keep me from finding out?"

George looked at me, eyes shot through with red. "Do you have to talk like that, Karen?"

"How do you want me to talk?" I set my glass on the table. "You say there's nothing going on, but she's texting you at two in the morning and you can't even answer her with me standing right here. You say the eight hundred thousand was just a favor, but every post she puts up is thanking you. What am I supposed to think?"

George stood up and kept his voice low. "Three years of marriage. When have I ever lied to you?"

"You're lying to me right now."

He said nothing.

I looked him in the eye. "George. Do you still have feelings for her?"

A long silence.

Long enough that I thought he wasn't going to answer.

"I'm not the type to be led around by my emotions," he said.

I almost smiled.

What a careful answer. Not "I don't love her" — just "I'm not that sentimental." Which meant: yes, there was something there, but maybe not anymore. Or maybe just not as much.

But if you spend eight hundred thousand on a villa for a woman you claim not to love, if you sit up past midnight waiting on her texts — is that what "not being led around" looks like?

I didn't say any of that. I picked up my water glass and went back to the bedroom.

I lay there listening to the sounds from the living room. He was on the phone, voice pressed low, but I still caught pieces of it.

"...keep the key. I'm not coming."

"It's fine, don't worry about it."

"Get some rest."

After he hung up, the living room was quiet for a long time. Then I heard his footsteps. He came to the bedroom door, paused, and walked away.

He never came in.

I barely slept. Just before dawn, I heard the front door. I got up and looked out. His car was gone.

Where did he go?

I picked up my phone. Eve had posted a voice note on Instagram. I pressed play.

Her voice was thick, like she'd been crying. "George, you're really not coming? I want to see you."

Posted fifteen minutes ago.

George had left fifteen minutes ago.

I sat on the edge of the bed and felt something almost absurd settle over me. Three years of marriage. He never left the house in the morning without telling me. Every single thing that had been off about him traced straight back to Eve.

Then his other phone buzzed. The one he'd left at home.

I picked it up.

Twenty-something unread messages on the screen. All from Eve. The newest was a voice note. I pressed play.

"George, I was wrong back then. I never should have left. I regret it so much — I really do. You still care about me, don't you? You wouldn't have bought the villa if you didn't. You told me once that the biggest regret of your life was not being able to make me stay. I'm back now. Can you... give me another chance?"

The voice note ended. A text came in right after.

"You said it yourself — the one thing you regret most is losing me. I'm here now. Can't we try again?"

I set the phone down.

"The biggest regret of his life."

On our wedding night, during the toast, he'd smiled and said: "I have nothing left to regret."

That wasn't the truth, was it.

The doorbell rang.

I went to answer it. A woman stood outside. White dress, long hair, red-rimmed eyes.

Eve.

She saw me and blinked, then forced a small smile. "Karen, is George home?"

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