Page 83 of The Silent Hour

I frown. “Why would Serena be here?”

“She works here, Ethan.”

Right. My brain, fogged by two sleepless nights, catches up. She shoves a garment bag into my arms, the fabric rustling.

“Shower.”

“Lia.”

“You smell like yesterday.”

I flinch. “That wasn’t a Lila comment, drama queen. You literally smell like you’ve been awake for two days.”

Despite everything, a twitch pulls at the corner of my mouth. She remained stone-faced. “Get dressed. Eat something.”

“And then?”

“Then you go be the terrifying attorney everyone pays obscene amounts of money for.” She stepped closer, close enough that I can see the raw hurt beneath her steel. “And I decide what I need from my husband.”

I nodded my throat tight. “Whatever it is.”

Her expression soured. “Don’t make promises while you’re scared. Promises made because you’re afraid I’ll leave aren’t worth shit to me.” She taps one finger against my chest: “I want honesty.” Another tap: “Accountability.” Another: “And I want you to figure out why you kissed her back before you stand in front of me and swear it’ll never happen again.”

“Okay,” I whisper.

She turns to go, then pauses in the doorway. “And Ethan?”

“Yeah?”

Her eyes find mine. “If you ever find yourself alone with her again, don’t stand there wondering whether I’m going to be mad. Wonder whether you’ve become stupid enough to gamble your entire fucking life for five seconds you can’t even explain.”

The door clicked shut.

I stand in the morning light, clutching the garment bag. For several heart-thudding seconds, I can’t move. Then I look down at my wedding band: eleven years, two daughters, a wife who walked into my office after learning I’d kissed someone else and still made sure I’d eaten breakfast.

That’s the woman I married.

Somewhere along the way, I’d grown comfortable enough to forget how dangerous it is to take that kind of love for granted.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

JULIA

I EASED ETHAN’S SLEEK sedan to the curb outside Meg’s building, the tires whispering against the concrete as I clicked the shifter into park. The engine’s low purr decrescendos, leaving me wrapped in the scent of warmed leather and a faint trace of my husband’s cologne.

There was a sort of disconnect between us lately, one soft words and apologies couldn’t bridge. I was disappointed more than anything else.

That hadn’t stopped me from insisted on swapping vehicles. My hulking SUV would’ve been an exercise in frustration wedged between a gleaming Bentley and a polished Tesla—two beasts of metal that seemed to sneer at any car daring to intrude. Ethan’s car, by contrast, glided into place like molten silk through fingertips.

Look at that, I thought, pride fluttering in my chest as I check the black rims—still immaculate. I could have gotten a sedan for myself, but I was not surrendering my truck anytime soon. In Big Ange with my seat lifted so that I could see, I was a giant; five-foot-four perched like a queen. Down here, I felt every inch my true height.

For a long moment I remained behind the wheel, absorbing the spectacle of Meg’s high-rise. Sheer glass and steel soaked up Miami’s midmorning glare, throwing harsh reflections onto the sidewalk. I glanced at the clock on the dash: 10:03.

Around me, the available curbside slots were already claimed. Carmen’s sporty coupe—its crimson paint like a flare—sat a few spaces down. Toya’s matte-black Range Rover stood guard closer to the entrance. They were here, waiting. Which meant I’d officially run out of excuses to stay in Ethan’s car and stare at the dashboard.

I leaned forward, tugging on my auburn hair to smooth a stray strand, and check my reflection in the rearview mirror. Hazel eyes watched back: weary but steel-bright. Lip gloss still gleamed across my lips; my silk blouse was unwrinkled.

To anyone glancing my way, I looked flawless—composed, put-together, like a woman who knew exactly what she was doing.