Three days had passed since the movie night confession, and the penthouse felt different.

Andrea moved through the mornings like a ghost in her own life.

She woke earlier than usual, slipping out of the guest room before Henry stirred, leaving only a neatly folded blanket and a short note on the kitchen island: Left for work early. See you at the office.

In the office, she made his coffee exactly the way he liked it every morning–black, one sugar, no foam poured into the thermos he preferred and placed it on his desk at Crestview with a quiet, professional “Good morning, Mr. Moore.”

Henry always looked up from whatever...