In the master suite, I paused at the threshold where everything had changed. The room looked nothing like it had a year earlier. Soft gray walls. Tailored drapery. Linen that smelled of cedar and clean cotton. On the dresser sat a framed photo Owen had insisted I keep from the summer charity softball game. In it, Marcus was laughing at something off-camera, tie loosened, one sleeve rolled, while I stood beside him holding a plastic trophy and trying not to smile too much. Anyone seeing that picture would have assumed ease. They would not have seen the wreckage underneath. That was fine. Survival is not a lifelong obligation to display scars.
I changed out of the gown, poured one last glass of wine, and took it to the terrace. The October air was cool enough to sharpen the edges of everything. Somewhere beyond the tree line, a train moved through the dark with a distant metallic sigh. I sat in the chair where, a year earlier, I had imagined planning honeymoon itineraries with a man who had already decided my success was something to annex.