Victoria set the table for three again on the third night.

No soup this time. Roast chicken. Vegetables. Bread already sliced in a basket at the center. Ordinary food arranged with the same deliberate precision that had defined every shared surface since she decided to stay inside the open secret. Elena sat in her usual chair with the thick residual heat of the afternoon’s claim still warm between her legs—Marcus had taken her in the study again during the short window Victoria spent in the master bedroom with the door closed, quiet and absolute, the marks pressed darker, the ownership confirmed under the continuous pressure that never fully left the...