I stare at the message. The fact that Quinn even has to ask this question makes my stomach twist.
My mother's words turned into a weapon that needs "handling."
I text back.
Block.
Three dots appear, then:
You got it. Also, CAMICOM tickets arrived. Just saying.
I smile despite myself. Quinn knows exactly how to pivot without dismissing the problem. I set the phone down and move to the window, staring out at Arthur's immaculate grounds.
They don't feel like mine.
My clothes hang in the closet, neatly organized by color and season—a system I never used before. My sparkly bags sit on custom shelves, looking both defiant and out of place against the neutral walls.
Even my toiletries feel temporary, lined up on the bathroom counter like they're waiting for permission to stay.
It makes sense. The marriage was practical. Calculated. A solution to twin problems—his need for emotional support for his son, my need for protection.
Romance wasn't part of the equation.
Until that kiss. Until the way he looked at me after.
Maybe that's just what happens. Maybe it doesn't mean anything deeper than biology and opportunity.
My mother's voice echoes in my head.
Would he have chosen you if you were still just... you?
I grab my jacket and head downstairs, needing air, needing space. The security detail materializes as soon as I reach the front door, ready to follow wherever I go. I bite back a sigh. Even my need to be alone comes with witnesses now.
"Just the gardens," I tell them. "I'm not going far."
They nod, maintaining a respectful distance as I step outside into the cool afternoon.
Arthur's gardens are like everything else about him—deliberate, precise, designed to create an impression of effortless perfection. No weed dares grow here. No flower blooms out of sequence. Even the wind seems to understand its role, rustling the leaves just enough to seem natural without causing disorder.
I follow the stone path, my footsteps echoing slightly. The security detail trails behind, silent and watchful.
Near the edge of the property, there's a small clearing with a bench overlooking the city below. I sit, drawing my knees up to my chest, and try to sort through the tangle of thoughts my mother's call left behind.
Arthur is a good man. He's fair, honest, attentive in his own way. He cares about Henry more than anything. He's never made me feel less than.
But he's also methodical. Strategic. He approached our marriage the way he approaches everything—as a problem to solve, a system to optimize.
And I said yes for similar reasons. Security. Structure. Protection from a world that suddenly saw me as a target.
Maybe my mother isn't entirely wrong. Maybe this isn't about love. Maybe it never was.
But why does that thought hurt so much?
I stay on the bench until the shadows lengthen, until the city lights begin to flicker on in the distance. The security detail shiftspositions but never complains, never suggests I should head back. Small mercies.
By the time I return to the house, dinner is almost ready. Henry is setting the table, chattering to Steven about something that happened at school. He looks up when I enter, his face lighting up in a way that makes my chest ache.
"Lindsay! Where were you? I wanted to show you this thing from science class."
