A stray grain of rice clung to my finger as I absently scrolled through my phone when Emily enthusiastically dropped the pin for a trendy hotel into our group chat. That familiar location pierced my vision like a needle—identical to the coordinates Mark had mysteriously shared last month during his "overtime." His text, still fresh above the pin, blinked at me: "With clients. Home late. Don't wait up." The pale glare of the fridge light reflected starkly off his favorite German dark beer. Clutching my phone, a sudden chill settled over me; our seven-year marriage felt like an industrial freezer.
Emily's Share
My phone buzzed for the third time. I swiped on the greasy screen with a fingertip still smeared with broccoli and rice from my daughter's abandoned lunch. Emily's "Globetrotting Gourmands" group chat was exploding. She'd sent a location link punctuated by screaming emojis: "Girls! This new rooftop bar is INSANE! Killer sunset! Epic cocktails! Friday—BE THERE!" As my finger slid over the little blue pin, an unnerving sense of déjà vu crawled down my spine. My heart inexplicably sank. I knew this place... Not casually. It was a deeper, more grating familiarity. I hesitated, my finger hovering over the glowing screen, suspended between the unfamiliar hotel name and its hauntingly recognizable spot.
The Sting of Memory
The moment my fingertip brushed the location bubble, it was like touching a searing brand. I flinched away. Last month. A night just like this. Mark’s voice had crackled over the phone, laced with intentional weariness and a subtle urgency: "Big client dropped in unexpectedly. Gotta entertain them. Probably crashing here tonight." Soon after, his location sharing request popped up. What was I doing then? Probably soothing our child to sleep in a dimly lit room. Seeing his pin, I’d naively, lovingly replied, "Got it. Don't drink too much. Call a cab if it ends early. Be safe." Now, I stared at Jessica's pin—marking a "Hot Spot"—the exact same blue dot. My fingers zoomed in compulsively. The street names, the building outlines… the latitude and longitude were a perfect match. Overlapping flawlessly with the pin Mark shared that night.
The Beer in the Fridge
The kitchen was eerily silent, save for the fridge's low drone. Pulling open the door, cold air washed over my face. It was crammed. Leftovers. My daughter’s strawberry yogurt. Bathed in the cold, white light on the top shelf: several cans of German dark ale. Mark’s favorite. The gold letters on the label glared. I stared at the cans. The icy aluminum seemed to leach into my fingertips. Had he opened one? Last night? The night before? I couldn’t recall. He always seemed to drink elsewhere. At home, he was mostly silent, glued to his phone or the endless drone of televised sports.
"With Clients"
Buzz. My phone lit up. A new text hovered at the top—Mark’s name. Sent five minutes ago. "Sorry babe, sudden meeting with an important VIP. Don't wait for dinner, gonna be super late." My fingers tapped the message open, closed, closed, opened. A familiar, sickening blend of suspicion and humiliation surged into my throat. Clients. Always clients. These ubiquitous, faceless "VIPs" haunted our lives, effortlessly stealing moments meant for family, always with unquestioned entitlement. I could even recall the faint, foreign perfume clinging to his collar the last time he mentioned "clients." My finger rested on the cold glass, desperately searching the curt, emotionless words for a scrap of hidden truth, or even a hint of remorse.
The Frozen Home
I slowly shut the fridge door. Click. The kitchen plunged into utter silence, broken only by the fridge's persistent hum. Hummm… Hummm… Seven years rewound like a reel of film gone bad. His trembling fingers placing the ring. His bloodshot eyes holding newborn Lily for the first time. The slightly wilted roses hidden behind his back last birthday. And the growing frequency of "overtime," "functions," "late," "don't wait." Suddenly, the house felt cavernously empty. Standing in the middle of the kitchen, I felt like I was trapped in the vast, silent freezer compartment of a giant fridge. Cold seeped into my bones.
Password Failure
Mark’s phone lay like a landmine on the coffee table. Dark blue case, brushed metal edges. Not long ago, this device felt transparent between us. His unlock pin had been my birthday—0208—since day one. "Easy to remember," he’d grinned, setting it. "And a daily reminder of the best day of my life." That simple sequence was our little sweet secret, a symbol of trust. What changed? I walked over and picked it up. Heavy. Habit guided my fingers: 0—2—0—8. A glaring red error box flashed on the screen. Wrong PIN. My heart felt skewered by that little red X. A sour sting flooded my nose. Wrong PIN. Four simple words, a knockout blow.
Lily's Call
"Mommy! Mommy!" Lily's impatient voice chirped from her room. "I can’t find Pinky Unicorn! Is she under the bed again?" It felt like being yanked from icy water. I dropped the phone like it burned. Took a shaky breath, forcing my voice steady. "Coming, sweetie! Mommy will find her." My steps faltered walking to her room. The warm living room light, our beaming beach photo on the wall, scattered Lego bricks… all the familiar details of "home" now felt obscured beneath frosted glass. Wrong PIN. The words still screamed in my head.
The Unicorn Under the Bed
Lily’s room was chaos of color. Her bottom stuck out as she burrowed halfway under her princess bed, legs kicking. "Mommy, help! It’s too dark! I can’t see!" Kneeling, the scent of dust and old stuffed animals filled my nose. Reaching into the dimness, fingertips brushing soft fur. I pulled out the slightly threadbare pink unicorn. "Ah! My Amelia!" Lily snatched it, hugging tight, cheek nuzzling the mane. "I knew she was here! She always hides!" Her frown vanished instantly, eyes crinkling with joy. A child’s happiness, so pure and direct.
Mark's "Late Night"
Amelia secured, Lily snuggled down. I tucked her dinosaur comforter around her, gently patting. Her breathing evened out quickly, a small fist loosely gripping the unicorn’s horn. I slipped out, closing the door softly. The living room quiet descended. The wall clock’s ticks echoed. Tick. Tock. Almost nine. Outside, the city’s glow painted the sky a muddy orange. Mark said "super late." How late? Midnight? One AM? Or another dawn with no sign of him? "With clients"… Did that mean he couldn’t even send a text to say he was safe? He used to. "Wrapping up soon" or "In the cab." Now, silence.
The Search
Impulse drove me to the study. My laptop screen glowed coldly. Fingers slid across the trackpad, opening the seldom-used browser. The cursor hovered over the search bar. My breath hitched. My fingertip pressed down, typing the hotel’s name. My knuckles whitened hitting Enter. Information flooded the screen. Glossy official photos: crystal chandeliers, rooftop pools with city views, plush suites. Exorbitant prices. Promos screamed "Experience Luxury, Your Ultimate Romantic Weekend." But my gaze snagged on forum links buried in corners: "Hidden entrance @ XX Hotel, insiders only ;)" "XX Hotel soundproofing TESTED (you know what for)" "Business hotel? Pfft. Check the lobby scenery after midnight." A lump of ice settled in my stomach, dragging me down. Fingertips turned to ice.
Last Month's Shared Location
I slumped back, breath catching. The laptop light stung my eyes. Last month. That shared location. Fragments of memory slammed together. Drizzling rain that night. Mark’s call, loud background noise—music? Not a business meeting. His voice sounded… detached? "Babe, nightmare client session. Foreign guys wanna party all night. Location sharing’s on. Don’t stress." I clicked his live pin. A little blue dot, fixed precisely on the map. Hotel name displayed. I’d thought it looked remote, figured he was working hard. When did he turn it off? Can’t recall. He stumbled home near noon the next day, sallow, puffy-eyed, shirt crumpled, reeking of stale booze and cheap perfume. "Drank too much. Crashed in a room," he mumbled. I believed him. Made him hangover soup. Now, that blue dot overlay perfectly with the pin Emily shared.
Emily's Push
My phone buzzed again on the nightstand. Emily’s name flashed. I stared. It stopped. Then buzzed again, insistent. I inhaled sharply, answered, pressed the phone to my ear. "Hey? Kate!" Emily’s voice bubbled, faint music behind her. "See the pin? Amazing, right? Friday? YES? The terrace view is UNREAL! Sunset cocktails—OMG! Peak life!" Her excitement poured out, oblivious to my silence. I opened my mouth. Throat tight, dry. Nothing came out. "Kate? Hello? Bad signal?" Emily sounded puzzled. "Yeah… saw it," I finally rasped, voice unfamiliar. "Looks… expensive." "Hey! Worth every penny!" Emily breezed on, oblivious. "Treat yourself! Girls' night! Bring Mark too! Show him the scene!" Bring Mark? An icy hand clenched my heart. "He…" I swallowed hard. "He… probably… busy."
Mark's Shirt
Hanging up, the cold silence pressed in again. I walked to the bedroom closet. Mark’s side. Fingers brushed the row of neatly hung shirts. Mostly formal, a few checked casuals. My eyes locked onto a deep blue pinstripe. He wore it last Wednesday—his birthday. I’d ironed it meticulously that morning, paired it with his favorite silver tie. He came home late that night too—"with clients." He tossed it over the chair. Next morning, picking it up for the laundry, I froze. Inside the collar, near the shoulder seam. A faint, almost invisible smudge of pink. Tiny. Like lipstick. Or dye transfer? Foundation? A flicker of doubt, quickly drowned by Lily’s morning cries. Forgotten. Until now. I yanked open a drawer, digging beneath folded clothes. The pinstripe lay buried at the bottom. Pulled it out. Held it close. Sniffed. Beneath the detergent scent, the pink smudge remained. Clearer now. And clinging faintly, a whiff of an unfamiliar, sweet perfume. Not mine. Not anything we owned. I crumpled the shirt violently in my fist, the rustling fabric loud in the quiet room. Nails dug into my palm, pressing against the pink spot.
Sleepless Rain
Rain started past midnight. Fat drops smacked the window pane. Tap. Tap. I lay in bed, eyes open, watching streetlight shadows flicker on the wall. Mark’s side: empty, pillow cold, sheets smooth. His "late night" continued. My mind screened a chaotic montage: Emily’s screaming emojis, the damned blue dot, the exact map overlap, the icy "Wrong PIN," the suggestive forum titles, the shirt’s pink stain. Rain hissed. Like tiny needles stitching my frayed nerves. My temples throbbed. Seven years rewound: his damp eyes lifting my veil; his goofy grin when Lily first said "Dada"; massaging his temples after late work; his slamming door during fights; the multiplying "late nights," "functions," "clients"… Trust, once a sparkling crystal, clear and pure. When did the fog settle? When did the first hairline crack appear? Outside, the downpour intensified, washing the world.
Breakfast Plate
Rain still fell, steady and grey. The kitchen echoed with soft clinks. I slid scrambled eggs and toast onto Lily’s cartoon plate. Poured milk. "Mommy," Lily rubbed her eyes, yawning, climbing her stool, legs swinging. "Where’s Daddy? Did he work late again?" "Mmhm," I cut the eggs, my voice unnaturally calm. "Daddy’s busy." Lily clumsily speared a piece of egg, stuffing it in, cheeks bulging. "Will he take me to preschool today? He promised." I met her bright, hopeful eyes. Pure innocence. I reached over, wiping yolk from her chin. "Daddy… might not make it. Mommy take you, okay?" Lily’s lower lip quivered, disappointment flashing, but she nodded. "Okay. Tell Daddy he owes me!" "Okay," I choked out, throat thick.
The Road to the Hotel
After dropping Lily off, I fled the vibrant preschool chaos. Started the car. Wipers began their monotonous sweep. Fingers ice-cold on the wheel. The thought wasn't a thought anymore; it was a compulsion. I had to see it. The place marked by the blue pin. Mark’s "client meeting" destination. I needed the reality—to shatter or confirm the icy dread in my chest. Merging into slow traffic, I didn't need GPS. The hotel’s name and rough location were burned into my brain. A dark beacon drawing me in. I realized this route felt familiar… aligned with the lingering scent of upscale restaurants and night air Mark often brought home. The wipers thumped. My vision blurred and cleared. My heart hammered against my ribs, heavy and distinct.
The Revolving Door
The car stopped on a moderately busy street. Rain blurred the view. The hotel loomed ahead—coldly modern, glass façade reflecting the grey sky, sharper than its online photos. An immaculate doorman stood like a statue. I cut the engine. Rain drummed the roof. Through the windshield, I watched the huge, slow-turning brass and glass door. Each revolution spat out or swallowed well-dressed figures: businessmen, tourists, entwined couples whispering. My fingers dug into the steering wheel leather. When would Mark walk through? Like the brisk, detached suits? Or...? The icy stone in my gut sank lower.
Cheap Perfume
Pushing the car door open, damp cold air rushed in. Pulling my coat tight, I hurried across the sidewalk to a corner convenience store under a large awning. Inside, sterile lighting, messy aisles. A plump young woman behind the counter scrolled videos, loud music playing. I pretended to browse drinks by the window—a vantage point offering a blurred view of the hotel's grand entrance. Minutes crawled. People flowed through the revolving door. Suits. Dresses. Suddenly, it turned again. A man in his forties emerged—grey suit, top button undone, hair messy. A young woman in a sequined miniskirt clung to him, thick makeup, giggling, hand possessively on his back. A wave of overpowering, cheaply sweet perfume hit me even through the glass and rain. Cloying. Nauseating. He hailed a cab; they tumbled in laughing. I jerked my gaze away. My stomach lurched. Bile rose. That perfume—it felt identical to the scent ghosting the pink stain on Mark’s collar.
A Familiar Back
Leaning against the cold fridge door, fingers numb, I fumbled for money. My gaze drifted back to the hotel entrance. The revolving door slid open silently. A figure stepped out. Dark, tailored suit. One hand in trouser pocket, a high-quality coat draped over the other arm. Walking steadily, head down, checking his phone. My heart skipped, then slammed against my ribs. Blood rushed to my head. That posture. That silhouette etched in my mind. The set of his shoulders. The dip of his neck. The slight tension in his ankles as he walked. Every detail screamed one name: Mark! What was he doing here? Now? 10:45 AM? He was supposed to be in meetings across town! He’d said all-day meetings, dinner later… He lowered his phone, glanced up, scanning the area. His face turned fully towards me— I jerked back into the store’s shadows like I’d been shocked, spine pressed into cold metal shelving. Pain shot through me. Heart hammered in my throat. Choking. It *was* him. Beyond doubt. Mark Williams. My husband.
Cold Marble
The store’s chill seeped into my bones. Frozen behind the shelf, limbs icy. Nails dug into my palm, pain anchoring me. Mind blank, buzzing. Through the shelf gap and streaked window, I saw Mark pause by the hotel doors. He checked his watch. What was he waiting for? Time congealed. A black ride-share car slid silently to the curb. Mark strode down the steps. He pulled the door open, ducked inside—profile taut, expressionless. The door shut. The black car vanished into the wet traffic. Inside the store, the clerk’s video ended. Abrupt silence. I leaned against the cold shelf, gasping. Breathless from the last few minutes. The cheap store scents—air freshener, instant noodles, the lingering ghost of that cloying perfume—assaulted me. I coughed violently, tears springing.
Lily's Drawing
Dazed, I started the car. Wipers still swayed. My phone buzzed on the passenger seat—Lily’s preschool teacher. Jolted alert, I answered shakily. "Mrs. Williams?" the teacher’s kind voice came. "Lily seems a bit off today. Low fever, not herself. Could you possibly collect her early?" Lily sick! Ice water drenched my turmoil. "How high? I—I’ll come now!" My voice trembled. "38.2°C. Just taken. Don't panic, probably just a chill. Drive carefully." Hanging up, I spun the wheel. Tires screeched on wet pavement. Hotel, silhouette, pink stain—all forgotten. Rushing to the preschool, I pushed open the classroom door. Lily lay listlessly on a play table, cheeks flushed. Seeing me, her lip quivered, arms reaching. "Mommy…" My heart clenched. "It’s okay, sweetheart. Mommy’s here," I choked out, rubbing her back. Lily nuzzled me. "Mommy, I drew a picture. For Daddy…" Her little hand dug into her coat pocket, pulling out folded paper. Crayon stick figures—mommy, daddy, Lily. Big sun. Scrawled beside it: DAD.
Husband's "Concern"
Carrying feverish Lily home, settling her in bed, applying the cooling strip, I realized my own body was trembling. My phone rang. Mark’s name flashed. I stared at the screen, light stinging my eyes. Finally swiped, held it to my ear, silent. "Kate?" Mark’s voice came, office-quiet in the background. "Lily? Teacher called about a fever?" Normal tone. His usual steadiness. Like… like any concerned father. "Mmhm," I grunted. "Bad? Temp? Doctor?" His questions came rapid-fire, sounding urgent. "Just wrapped up here. Stuck with lunch, but I’ll try to swing home early tonight." Home early tonight? Hearing his calm, caring voice, absurdity washed over me. Hours ago, he’d nonchalantly exited *that* hotel. Now, effortlessly playing the doting dad? "Over 38. Sleeping now," I rasped, voice like sandpaper. "Come back or don’t. Whatever." Silence on his end. My reaction surprised him. "Kate? You… okay? You sound… off?" Probing tone. "Fine," I cut him off, unable to bear it. Every word tore at me. "Handle your business." I hung up before he could reply. Only Lily’s soft breaths filled the room.
Leah's Call
Lily slept fitfully, brow furrowed. I sat by her bed, smoothing her damp hair. My phone screen glowed silently—not Mark. Leah. Our mutual friend, Mark’s company Finance Assistant. Warm, prone to gossip. Hesitating, I answered. "Hey, Kate!" Leah chirped. "Busy?" "Just with Lily. She’s got a fever." "Oh, poor thing! Feel better soon!" Leah cooed, then dropped her voice conspiratorially. "Listen, don’t tell Mark this came from me, okay?" My fingers tightened. "Yeah?" "That big industry summit today? Sequoia Capital? At the Four Seasons? Pretty high-level stuff." Leah spoke fast. "Mark and Pete were the only invites from our firm. Well, Pete called me freaking out this afternoon! Couldn’t find Mark! Phone dead!" My stomach dropped. Four Seasons? Clear across town from the bar hotel. "And?" My voice strained. "Pete ran around inside—no sign of him! Others hadn't seen him check in either! Pete was livid—needed crucial data only Mark has!" Leah’s disapproval was clear. "Seriously, Kate? Missing that? Couldn’t even call? Left Pete hanging!" Leah droned on about Pete’s stress. Her words faded. Four Seasons. Major summit. Mark, a key guest. He never went. Where was he all afternoon? The precisely pinned bar hotel. The familiar figure in the dark suit exiting the revolving doors at 10:45 AM. All the fragments snapped together with brutal clarity, locked into place by Leah's unwitting revelation: his absence.
ER Fluorescence
Lily's temperature spiked dangerously as night fell. Face burning crimson, breathing ragged, her little body twisted in discomfort against mine, whimpering. Her forehead scorched my cheek. "It's okay, baby! Mommy's got you!" Wrapping her blanket hastily, I bolted into the cold night. Lily shivered violently against me. Starting the car, I ran red lights, speeding to the children's hospital ER. Harsh fluorescent lights glared as I rushed her limp form into triage. Forms. Thermometer. Blood draw. Lily’s piercing cries echoed in the empty halls. The needle jabbed; her tiny fingers clawed my shirt, nails digging in. "Mommy, hurts… Want Daddy…" She sobbed, eyes shut. "Daddy’s coming soon," I whispered, voice breaking, tears mingling with hers on her hot skin. The hollow promise tasted like ash. Where *was* her daddy? With whom?
The 3 AM Text
Hours later. Lily finally slept, IV drip in place, temperature easing. Curled small and fragile on the narrow ER bed, tape securing the tube on her tiny hand. I slumped on a hard plastic chair, body aching. The sharp tang of antiseptic hung thick. Occasional cries and shuffling feet echoed. My phone buzzed faintly in my pocket. Numbly, I pulled it out. Sender: Mark. Time: 03:17. Text: "Still awake? How's Lily? Just wrapped up. Client was impossible. Headed back to the apartment near the office. Early start tmrw w/ files. Hang in there, babe.
Faded Vows
I set the phone down slowly. Its light died. Under the ER's cold fluorescence, everything faded to grey. Leaning back against the icy chair, the noise faded. Seven years replayed. Proposing on the beach, his trembling hand holding the ring, waves washing his ankles. "Katherine Williams," his voice earnest, eyes holding starlight. "Marry me. I will love you, be faithful to you, in good times and bad, sickness and health, until death." Exchanging vows, the minister's voice solemn: "...will you have Katherine to be your wife... love her, comfort her, honor and keep her... forsaking all others, as long as you both shall live?" His "I will," clear, firm, unwavering, resonating in the hushed church. Lily, premature, in the NICU for weeks. Him standing by the glass nightly, tracing her shape, eyes soft. "We did it, babe. The three of us. Always." My father's surgery last winter. Him taking leave, staying with me through long nights on unforgiving chairs, urging me to sleep on his shoulder. Murmuring to my mother, "I've got them, Mom. Always." Those moments, once vibrant and warm. And now? What were those promises? Words written on sand, washed away? Vows echoing in a church, silenced by time? Whispers in a hospital corridor, bleached by disinfectant? Love. Faithfulness. For better or worse. Each word faded so fast under this harsh light, a cruel, heartbreaking joke.
Divorce Papers
Near dawn, I carried sleeping Lily home alone. Tucked her in. Went to the study. Powered on the laptop. Its blue light pierced the pre-dawn gloom. The browser window yawned empty. The cursor blinked. My fingers hovered over the keys. Cold. Stiff. Paused. Typed four words: divorce agreement template. The screen flooded instantly. Cold titles: "Standard Divorce Agreement PDF", "Simple Childless Divorce Form", "Custody & Parenting Plan Template"... I clicked a formal-looking PDF. Dense text filled the screen. Bold letters screamed: DIVORCE AGREEMENT. Petitioner: Mark Williams. Respondent: Katherine Williams. My eyes dropped to "Children". Lily Williams. Age 5. Custody? Visitation? Asset division? Debt allocation? Each sterile clause dissected seven years. Dissected what was once called "home." The printer hummed to life in the silent room, then began its rhythmic churn. Page after page slid out, warm with fresh ink, detailing the end.
Dinner at the Hotel
The divorce papers, still warm from the printer, carefully folded with copies, went deep into my bag. Then, I texted Emily: "Count me in for Friday." Night fell. City lights glittered. Pushing open the heavy door to the hotel's rooftop bar, a wall of glass showcased the glittering cityscape. Emily waved excitedly from the bar, drink in hand, flanked by two others. "Kate! Over here!" She thrust a vibrant cocktail at me. "'Sunset Boulevard'! The signature!" I took the cold glass. Scanned the room. Alluring dresses, sharp suits, laughter hanging thick in the air. My gaze swept the crowd, lingering briefly on dark suits before moving on. Then, deep in a secluded booth. My heart stopped. Dim light. Yet unmistakable. Mark. Lounging in a plush velvet booth. A woman sat opposite, facing away. Cascading curls over bare shoulders. Light catching her elegant profile, lips curved. Leaning in, listening intently as Mark murmured something, expression rapt and amused. Mark wore a smile—relaxed, familiar, yet absent between us for so long. Smug? Appealing? He lifted a bottle, topping up her glass, movements effortless. Elegant place settings, barely touched food. An expensive-looking bottle of red. With clients? Important meeting? This was the "client." My stomach twisted violently.
The Scent of Perfume
The cold glass threatened to shatter in my grip. Emily chattered beside me about an art show, her voice muffled, distant. Mark leaned subtly toward the woman. Said something. She laughed, covering her mouth, shoulders shaking. Playfully swatted his arm—an intimate, flirtatious gesture. Mark chuckled, reaching out naturally to tuck a loose curl behind her ear. His fingertips grazed her earlobe, her cheekbone. That gesture. Effortlessly intimate. It seared my retinas, branding my brain. The world muted to white noise. Blood roared in my ears. *That was it!* The scent ghosting Mark’s collar—identical! The cloying core of that cheap perfume from the convenience store! Suffocating darkness threatened. I stumbled back, crashing into a waiter. Glasses shattered. Ice, liquid cascaded over me, crashing loudly to the floor. The noise shattered the intimate ambiance. Heads snapped towards the commotion. Including theirs. Mark’s smile vanished. He saw me. His eyes widened—shock, disbelief, panic frozen on his familiar face. His hand, mid-touch near her ear, hung suspended, then jerked away. The woman turned fully. A young, strikingly beautiful face, etched with shock. Time froze.
The Name "Leah"
Chilled liquid soaked through my coat. All eyes locked onto me. Emily rushed over, flustered. "Kate! Oh my god! Are you okay? Hurt?" She dabbed frantically with napkins. I barely felt it. Every sense focused on the booth. Mark shot up, jostling the table. Glasses clattered. Color drained from his face, shock turning to stone. He stared, lips moving soundlessly. The woman rose too, beautiful face a mask of shock and annoyance, eyeing Mark and me nervously. Stifling silence. Then my own voice cut through the lingering music, sharp and clear: "Leah?" The woman flinched. "Who… who are you?" Mark jolted as if electrocuted. "Kate! This isn’t—! This is Leah! New investment advisor!" Desperation laced his voice. I looked at his panic-stricken face, then at "Leah"—young, polished, radiating shock. The firm’s new investment advisor Leah? My lips twisted into a grimace. *This* was the Leah who, just yesterday afternoon, in tones dripping with gossip and sympathy, told me Mark had ghosted the crucial summit. How fitting. Truth underscored by fate's ironic hand. Leah. Yesterday, she’d complained about Mark’s absence, worried for Pete. Now here she was.
