Carson mentioned it over pasta. Wednesday night, kitchen table, Sunny asleep under his chair.
"Barrett's been different lately," he said, twirling his fork. "More... I don't know. Engaged? He copied me on the Riverside acquisition yesterday. Asked me to sit in on the partner strategy session next week."
I set down my water glass. "That's good."
"Yeah." Carson smiled, a little surprised, a little pleased. "He called me 'the firm's most underutilized asset' in front of the entire litigation team. I think he might actually be mentoring me."
I nodded. I said something about how Carson deserved the recognition. I meant it. But that night, after he fell asleep, I moved the velvet-lined box from the nightstand drawer to the top of it. Within reach.
I didn't shake it. I just needed to see it.
---
Three weeks after the wedding, Barrett invited Carson for drinks.
"Just the two of us," Carson told me that morning, knotting his tie in the bedroom mirror. "He said he wants to talk through some long-term career planning. Informal. Off the record."
"Where?" I asked.
"Some bar in Midtown. I forget the name."
I watched him button his cuffs. I wanted to tell him not to go. I wanted to say that Barrett Knight didn't do anything informal, that every word out of his mouth was a move on a board Carson didn't know he was playing on. But I couldn't. Not without explaining why. Not without dragging every ugly thing I'd buried into the light between us.
So I kissed him and told him to have fun.
He texted me at eight. Then nine. Then nothing.
At eleven-thirty, my phone buzzed.
**Unknown Number:** *Your husband's had a bit too much. I'm bringing him home.*
I stared at the screen. I didn't recognize the number. But I knew who it was.
I was waiting in the living room when the car pulled up.
Barrett came through the door first, one arm around Carson's shoulders, holding him upright with the easy strength of someone who'd done this before. Carson's head lolled. His eyes were half-closed. He was trying to say something, but the words came out slurred and soft.
"Where do you want him?" Barrett asked.
His voice was calm. Polite. Like he was delivering a package.
"The couch," I said.
Barrett guided Carson across the room and lowered him onto the cushions with surprising gentleness. Carson mumbled something that might have been my name. His hand reached out, found nothing, dropped.
I knelt beside him and brushed the hair off his forehead. His skin was warm. His breath smelled like whiskey.
"He'll be fine," Barrett said behind me. "Just needs to sleep it off."
I didn't turn around. "Thank you for bringing him home."
"Of course."
I waited for the sound of the door closing. It didn't come.
I stood slowly and turned. Barrett was still there. He'd moved to the bookshelf near the window. He was looking at the spines—head tilted slightly, hands in his pockets, like he had all the time in the world.
"You can go," I said.
He didn't look at me. He pulled a paperback off the shelf. *The Great Gatsby.* Dog-eared, cracked spine, a coffee stain on the back cover. I'd read it in the Brooklyn apartment during the worst months. Carson had found me crying over the last page and made me tea without asking why.
Barrett turned it over in his hands. "You always liked the tragic ones."
I crossed the room and took the book from him. My fingers didn't shake. I set it back on the shelf.
"Leave," I said.
He smiled. Not the sharp, performative smile he used at the wedding. Something quieter. Almost sad.
"I've decided I want you back," he said.
The words landed soft. Matter-of-fact. Like he was telling me the weather.
I looked at him. Really looked. Same face. Same voice. Same man who'd wired five million dollars into my account and told me not to call.
I felt nothing.
"Your presence in my home makes me physically ill," I said. "The version of me who would have trembled at those words died the night you threw money at me like severance pay. You need to leave. Now."
He studied me for a long moment. His expression didn't change. But something behind his eyes shifted—surprise, maybe. Or the faint, dawning realization that the script he'd written wasn't playing out the way he'd expected.
He walked to the door. Stopped. Turned back.
"I'll see myself out," he said quietly.
The door clicked shut behind him.
I stood in the middle of my living room—the flea-market lamp glowing warm in the corner, the wedding photo still crooked on the mantle, Sunny padding over to press her nose against my hand—and I breathed.
Carson stirred on the couch. "Kenna?"
I knelt beside him again. "I'm here."
He reached for my hand. Found it. Held on.
I stayed there until his breathing evened out. Then I went upstairs, pulled the velvet box off the nightstand, and shook it once in the dark.
The sound was hollow. Glittering. Mine.
