Victoria came back on a Monday morning without warning.

Elena was in the kitchen in a high-necked sweater and soft pants, the lower marks aching in a dull continuous line under the fabric, the thick residual heat of the previous night’s load still warm between her legs because Marcus had told her to keep it in and the complete submission no longer left room for anything else. Marcus was at the island with coffee. The private frequency between them was quiet and absolute in the empty house—no more careful distance, no more failed endings, just the finished ownership and the claim she was still carrying.

The front door opened with...