Carissa felt the realization arrive the way a doctor might deliver a terminal result—calmly, with nowhere left to mishear.
“You are,” she said.
He dragged a hand through his hair. “Jesus Christ.”
“You are.”
“This is exactly why I can’t talk to you!” he snapped. “Everything becomes a courtroom. Everything becomes an accusation.”
“What would you prefer?” she asked. “A thank-you note?”
Damen stepped closer. “You know what this is really about? Control. You cannot stand that there is one room in this world you don’t control. At work, everyone listens to you. At home, you think you get to manage my feelings the same way you manage contracts.”
Carissa held his gaze. “I am asking whether you are having an affair with my sister.”
“And I am telling you that your obsession with interrogating me is why this marriage is dead.”
Carissa went still.
There it was.
Not denial.
Not remorse.
Not even an attempt at believable innocence.
Just blame dressed up as insight.
The room seemed to tip around her. Not because she hadn’t already known, but because he had finally chosen the lie so completely that he no longer needed to protect even the outline of decency around it.