Chapter 3

Tristan entered the living room and glanced at the folder he had left on the table.

“You didn’t start the revisions?”

“No.”

His mouth tightened, but he seemed too tired to argue.

“Come to bed.”

I followed him into the bedroom.

Nothing had changed—the gray curtains, our wedding photograph on the dresser, the glass of water beside my side of the bed.

But I could no longer look at any of it the same way.

Tristan sat beside me and reached for my hand.

“You’ve been upset all day.”

Upset.

As if he had forgotten an anniversary instead of removing my name from my work and booking a hotel room with another woman.

“Come here.”

Tristan had always used physical affection to end arguments without apologizing.

He pulled me closer and leaned in to kiss me.

I turned my face away. His lips brushed my cheek.

He froze.

“What was that?”

“I’m tired.”

“You’ve been tired for months.”

Months of injections, blood tests, and appointments he had promised to attend.

During those same months, he had found time to choose Lydia’s dresses and reserve a king-sized bed for them.

He touched my chin, trying to turn my face toward him.

“Vesper.”

The scent of his cologne made my stomach turn.

I pushed him away.

“Don’t touch me.”

His expression hardened. “You’re still angry about the announcement?”

“I said no.”

For several seconds, neither of us moved.

Then I got up and took my laptop.

“I can’t sleep. I’m going to write.”

“Fine,” he said. “Go calm yourself down.”

I left the bedroom and closed the door.

In the study, I found the earliest version of Glass House in my archived files.

Written by Vesper Vance.

I saved it to a private drive.

Then I found the original email I had sent Tristan before Lydia joined the studio and photographed the dates inside my handwritten notebooks.

I uploaded everything to the secure folder Evelyn had sent me.

As I closed the folder, a new email appeared in my inbox.

From: Elena Ward, Xingyao Media

Two older messages from her sat beneath it. I had ignored both because Tristan had said working outside our studio would make investors question our marriage.

The newest email had been sent that afternoon.

Vesper,

I’m making one final offer.

One project. A provisional contract. If the work meets our expectations, the position becomes permanent.

If you are ready to write under your own name again, confirm before midnight.

Below the message were two options.

Accept.

Decline.

From the bedroom, Tristan called my name.

I looked at the earliest draft of Glass House, then at the airline ticket waiting on my phone.

For years, I had treated every opportunity outside Tristan’s studio as a threat to our marriage.

Tonight, he was sleeping ten feet away after giving my work and my place to another woman.

I moved the cursor over the screen.

Then I clicked Accept.