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I tip my head back against the desk and close my eyes.

My phone buzzes.

I reach for it without looking.

Aria.

Are you coming home for dinner? Matteo finished prep but I wanted to wait to eat with you.

She waited.

Of course she waited.

She’s at the estate right now. Probably barefoot in the kitchen. Probably has paint on her wrists because she never notices until later, and I’ve started checking for it every time she walks into a room because I like knowing she’s been in the studio. Dinner’s warm because she assumed we’d eat together.

I should go home.

I should drive back to the estate, walk through the door, sit down across from my wife and tell her that Genevieve called and the board is coming and everything might be about to fall apart.

That’s what I should do.

I try not to think about the look on her face if I did.

I type:

Something came up for work. I’m staying in town tonight.

Her response is almost immediate.

Want me to drive in and stay with you?

My chest clenches.

There’s something about that text that damn near breaks me. I can see her—already reaching for her keys, already making room in the problem before she even knows what it is. Because that’s who Aria is. She doesn’t wait for the details. She just shows up.

I type back:

No. I’m going to sleep in my office until I get this dealt with. Stay at the house. Paint.

A long pause. Long enough that I almost type something else—something real—before her reply comes through.

Okay. Don’t work too hard. I’ll leave dinner in the fridge for you.

Then:

Miss you already.

I stare at the screen until it dims.

Then I turn the phone face down on the carpet beside me and sit there in the dark, on the floor of my office, while my wife sends me a heart and I don’t send one back.

Stay at the house. Paint.

I just told her to go use the studio. The damn studio. The thing I built because it was easier than saying what she had become to me out loud.

And now I’m using it to keep her away from me.

I know what I’m doing. I hate that I know. My father did this for thirty years—shut the doors, handled it alone, kept everyone at arm’s length and called it strength. I watched him do it. I swore I wouldn’t.