Year two of Leander and Liora’s marriage was when Dashiell’s control began to crack.

It started small. Innocent, even.

He began timing his morning coffee to coincide with Liora’s. Just happened to be in the kitchen when she came down in her pajamas, sleep-soft and gorgeous.

“Morning,” she’d say, stifling a yawn.

“Morning. Coffee?”

“Please.”

He’d make it exactly how she liked it—two sugars, splash of cream. Handed it to her with a smile that felt more genuine than anything else in his carefully controlled life.

They’d talk. About nothing important. The weather. The news. Her latest research project.

Leander rarely joined them. He wasn’t a morning person, preferred to...