Chapter 4

Breaking Point

The extension settled over the estate like a change in barometric pressure subtle, pervasive, and impossible to ignore.

I woke the morning after the third evening with the ghost of his hand still present at my waist and a restless energy that no amount of stretching or strong coffee could fully disperse. The guest suite remained as precise and impersonal as ever. Breakfast appeared without request. The house continued its quiet, expensive breathing. And somewhere below, I knew the performance room waited with its single black chair and its unbroken silence.

The next private session began the way the others had: barefoot on the cool wood,...