Victoria left for an early meeting before either of them was fully dressed. The front door closed. The house settled into the particular quiet that had always belonged to them.

Elena stood at the kitchen counter in the same sleep shirt she had pulled on after the night before. Under it the bruises felt present in a new way—not louder, not softer, simply acknowledged. Between her legs she still carried the heavy, combined heat of everything Marcus had left in her during the reconciliation. She had not cleaned up. He had not told her to. The decision had become mutual without either of them needing to say it aloud.

Marcus...