Page 59 of The Marriage Blunder

The war was on.

I couldn’t wait.

I made the call to Adams at 1:14 a.m. He picked up before the second ring, voice so crisp it could have sliced marble. “Mr. James?”

“Jude is moving in,” I said. “Tonight. I want the guest suite cleared for his stuff. Clear the second walk-in in the master and make sure the study is open on both ends. And you’ll need to stock the coffee he likes.”

There was the faint click of fingers on a notepad—real or virtual, impossible to say. “Of course, sir. Will you require assistance with the move, or—”

“Just discretion,” I said. “I want it done quietly. He’s to be considered a full resident as of this evening.”

“Understood,” Adams said. “Will the young man be requiring keycard access, or should I—”

“Give him the master set,” I said. “And make sure the building’s front desk is briefed on the security update.”

Another click. “Anything else, sir?”

“Have housekeeping do a deep clean on the office.”

“Already done,” he said, and I believed him.

“Thank you, Adams.”

“You’re very welcome, Mr. James.”

I hung up and leaned against the entry table, the weight of the evening settling in small, precise increments.

In the kitchen, Jude was filling the kettle, the motion as practiced as the rest of him. He measured coffee by weight, not by scoop, and never once looked at the instructions. He did not ask where the mugs were, or which cabinet to check for honey. He just moved, and the apartment made room for him.

The security detail from Alejandro’s firm arrived at exactly 2:07 a.m.—fifty-three minutes after the call. The lobby team did not make themselves visible; the two on our floor stood in the hallway, back to the wall, eyes tracking every motion.

The first was in his thirties, built like a linebacker who had found religion and decided to double down on protein shakes as a devotional practice. The second was older, thin, hair a patchwork of silver and black, a look that said he’d buried more threats than I’d ever encountered.

I greeted them both, introduced myself, confirmed their shift rotation. They stood at parade rest, but when I shook hands with the older one, his grip was gentle. “Mr. James,” he said, voice like he’d smoked a thousand Marlboros and then quit just to prove a point. “We have your husband covered.” He meant it literally.

I nodded. “Any questions?”

“None,” he said. “We’re familiar with the building’s blind spots. The unit is well sited.”

“Thank you,” I said, then let the door close.

Inside, Jude stood at the threshold of the kitchen, mug in both hands, watching the transaction. When our eyes met, he held the look for a full three seconds before dropping his gaze to the surface of the tea.

“You’re really doing this,” he said, not a question.

“Yes,” I said. “Are you?”

He shrugged, but the smile was there, faint and sly. “I think it’s done.”

For the rest of the night, neither of us tried to sleep. We worked the audit, paced the edges of the study, sat at the kitchen table in the hours between two and five with nothing but the city lights and the scent of strong coffee for company.

At some point, I realized Jude had set his phone in the center of the table and had not once picked it up.

* * * *

The move itself was a campaign. I handled it the way I handled everything: complete information, no wasted steps, all risk absorbed and accounted for.

I contracted a team I trusted, the kind who could pack a small apartment in three hours and not notice—or at least not comment on—the fact that the tenant had not slept there in days. I paid double for the short notice and triple for the confidentiality clause.