CLAIRE.

Morning came too soon.

We barely slept. Elena kept her word—mouth, fingers, the slow grind of her cunt against mine until my voice was hoarse and the sheets were ruined. When the alarm finally went off at seven she kissed the inside of my thigh one last time and whispered, “Later.”

We showered separately on purpose.
We dressed carefully.
I wore a soft cream dress that ended just above the knee. She wore black again—blouse, trousers, the elegant armor of the grieving widow. Neither of us looked like women who had spent the night soaking each other’s skin.

Marcus arrived at eight-thirty exactly.
He watched us too closely the...