Chapter 1

On the night of our seventh wedding anniversary, my husband saw the woman he had never gotten over standing in the rain.

He let go of my hand and ran to her without a second's hesitation.

"Wait here," he said.

The words were not even aimed at my face.

His eyes had already moved past the rain-streaked windows of the French restaurant to the corner across the street.

A woman stood there.

Her black trench coat was soaked through, clinging to a frame so slight she looked as if the storm might snap her in two.

Seraphine Lorne.

The woman who had disappeared without a word seven years ago was standing less than sixty feet away.

Alistair did not even take an umbrella.

The heavy restaurant door slammed behind him, cutting through the low jazz.

Then he crossed the street in the downpour and went straight to her.

I stayed at the table, still holding the black velvet box in my hand.

Inside was a pair of custom platinum cuff links. The date of our seventh anniversary was engraved beneath the lid.

A waiter stopped a few feet away with our entrees, staring helplessly at the half-empty table before looking at me.

"Ma'am, the lamb..."

"Just leave it."

I lowered my eyes and gently closed the box.

Through the fogged glass, I watched Alistair take off his suit jacket and drape it carefully around Seraphine's shoulders.

One hand settled protectively at the small of her back.

I had not seen that instinctive, almost desperate tenderness in him for a very long time.

I should have known what was coming when I saw the flight confirmation on his tablet that afternoon.

The flight was from London. Seraphine was the passenger. Alistair's personal assistant had booked it.

I took out my phone and forwarded the confirmation to my private email.

The ticket had not been purchased that afternoon.

It had been booked three days earlier.

This was not a chance encounter in the rain.

Alistair had known she was coming.

He had simply expected me to sit at our anniversary table and wait while he went to meet her.

I had told myself he was merely going through the motions.

That would have fit the last six months - the late nights, the distracted replies, the way my life had become background noise to him.

I had put my curatorial career on hold for two full years to care for his dying mother.

After she passed, what remained of my marriage was polished, respectable, and hollow.

Half an hour later, Alistair brought Seraphine home.

"Her marriage fell apart," he said. "The divorce just went through, and she hasn't found a place in the city yet."

He handed his wet coat to the housekeeper as casually as if he were discussing the weather.

"I've already had the guest room made up. She'll stay for a few days."

Seraphine stood in the foyer wrapped in Alistair's sweater, water still dripping from the ends of her hair.

When she looked at me, her expression held exactly the right blend of embarrassment and apology.

"I'm sorry, Eira. I didn't mean to intrude."

"Alistair insisted on bringing me here. I'll find somewhere else as soon as I can."

"It's fine."

My voice sounded calm, even to me.

Alistair seemed to relax.

He gave my shoulder a light pat, the kind of absent reassurance one offered a child.

"I knew you'd understand."

"She's exhausted. I'm going to take her upstairs."

And he did.

He assumed I would stay behind and smooth everything over.

He assumed I would not make a scene.

I went into the study and closed the door.

An embossed invitation to my mother's posthumous exhibition lay on the desk.

Alistair's signature was still on the VIP attendance list in the lower right-hand corner.

A month ago, he had promised that no matter how busy he was, he would be there to watch me deliver the opening address.

I opened the exhibition file and found Alistair's signed promise to attend.

Then I created a new folder on my laptop.

The flight confirmation went in first.

Not because I had decided to leave him.

Not yet.

But for seven years, I had helped Alistair forget every promise he broke.

I would not help him forget this one.

I picked up a black pen and circled the opening date.

Four days.

I would give him one final chance to choose.