Lina was good. I'll give her that.

She never did anything I could point at. That was the whole trick.

On Saturday morning, I stood in the kitchen doorway and watched her make Greyson's coffee. She didn't ask how he took it. She just knew. Two-thirds coffee, one-third steamed milk, no sugar. She stirred it exactly twice and tested the heat against her wrist.

Then she set it in front of him.

"Perfect temperature," he said, not even looking up.

"I remember," she said softly.

Seven years, and I still got it wrong half the time. He used to tease me about it.

I poured my own coffee. Black. Alone.

Lina turned to the fridge, and Greyson stood to refill his water. The kitchen was narrow. They did a small dance, and her shoulder pressed against his chest. Her hand landed flat on his arm to steady herself.

"Sorry!" She laughed, breathless. "I'm always in your way."

"You're fine," he said.

He didn't step back right away. Neither did she.

My fingers went tight around the mug. The ceramic was hot enough to hurt, and I let it.

Lina's eyes slid to me. Just for a second. Soft, wide, innocent.

Then something else flickered behind them. Something that wasn't soft at all.

I blinked, and it was gone.

"Oh, Kathryn," she said, pressing a hand to her chest. "I didn't see you there. I'm so sorry. I don't mean to intrude. We'll be out of your way soon, I promise."

She said it so sweetly. It made me feel like the villain in my own kitchen.

"Sunday's tomorrow," she added, turning back to Greyson. "Should I pack the little football for Andres? Or just the bubbles?"

"Bubbles," Greyson said. "He likes chasing them."

"What's tomorrow?" I asked.

Lina glanced at me, then away, like she'd said something she shouldn't. "Oh, it's nothing. Just our standing Sunday tradition. We take Andres to Central Park. Greyson started it a few months ago."

Our.

Standing.

Months.

I looked at Greyson. He suddenly found his coffee very interesting.

"You're welcome to join," Lina said gently. "If you want. I didn't mean to make you feel left out."

"I don't feel left out," I said.

I felt erased.

---

I waited until Andres was in the tub and Lina was singing to him through the door.

Then I shut the bedroom door and turned around.

Greyson sat on the edge of the bed, unbuttoning his cuffs. He looked tired. He looked like a man who'd already decided how this would go.

"I need a date," I said.

"A date for what?"

"When they leave."

He sighed. It was a long, patient sigh. The kind you give a child who won't stop asking why.

"Kat. We talked about this."

"You talked. I swallowed." I kept my voice flat. "I flew across an ocean. I've been here five days. I have half a closet and a burn on my arm. I want a timeline. One month? Two? Something."

"You're overthinking this."

"Then it should be easy to answer."

He stood up. Slowly. He slid his hands into his pockets like he was trying to look relaxed.

"Andres is in a critical phase of therapy," he said. "His doctor said any disruption could set him back months. If I put a deadline on this, he'll feel it. Kids pick up on everything. It would be cruel."

"Cruel to who?"

"To a five-year-old."

"And me?"

He frowned like the question didn't make sense. "What about you?"

There it was.

I almost laughed. The sound got stuck somewhere behind my ribs.

"I'm asking for one boundary, Greyson. In my own home."

"It's not a boundary when it hurts a child." His voice dropped, gentle and disappointed. "I thought you were better than this, Kathryn."

The words landed like a slap.

Better than this.

He held my eyes for a moment longer, then crossed the room and kissed my forehead. Quick. Dry. The way you'd kiss someone at a funeral.

"Get some rest," he said. "You're exhausted. It's the jet lag."

He walked out.

I stood there, staring at the door. My arm throbbed under its bandage.

It wasn't jet lag.

---

At midnight, I locked myself in the bathroom with the fan on. The tile was cold under my bare feet.

It was five a.m. in London. She'd pick up. She always did.

"Kat?" Her voice was thick with sleep. "What's wrong?"

I opened my mouth to say I was fine.

Instead, it all came out. The apron with my initials. The drawing on the fridge. The oatmeal. The perfume on the pillow. The Sunday tradition. I talked fast and low, and my voice shook on the word *Daddy*.

When I finished, the line went quiet.

"Maybe I'm being unfair," I whispered. "He says I'm overthinking. His mom owes her mom so much. And Andres is just a kid, and—"

"Kathryn."

I stopped.

"Listen to me." She was wide awake now. Her voice was hard as glass. "That woman has moved into your life. She's wearing your clothes, sleeping down the hall from your man, and cooking in your kitchen. Get out of there."

"It's not that simple."

"It is exactly that simple."

I pressed my forehead against the cool mirror. My reflection stared back. Pale. Hollow-eyed. A stranger in a borrowed sweater.

"I have to go," I said.

"Kat—"

I hung up.

I walked to the bedroom window and pulled the curtain aside. Manhattan glittered below me, a thousand lit windows, a thousand other people's lives.

Behind me, Greyson slept with one arm flung across my side of the bed.

Down the hall, a door clicked softly. Footsteps. Then the quiet hiss of a faucet in the kitchen.

Lina, awake at midnight, in my home.

I should have packed. I knew I should have.

I just stood there, watching the city, and didn't move.

The apartment was quiet when I got back from the pharmacy. I'd gone out for bandages. The burn on my arm was healing badly. It itched and wept through the gauze.

Greyson had texted an hour ago. *Stuck at work dinner. Don't wait up.*

I stood in the foyer and listened. No sounds from the guest room. Lina must have taken Andres somewhere.

I walked into the bedroom. The bed was made. Greyson's side was smooth and tight, the way hotels do it. I never made beds like that. Neither did he.

His iPad sat on the nightstand. Black glass. Screen dark.

I stared at it.

I didn't plan what happened next. My hand just moved.

I picked it up. The screen lit. Passcode required.

I thought about his birthday. Our anniversary. His mother's name.

Then I thought about the drawing on the fridge. The jasmine perfume. The way Lina touched his arm in the kitchen.

I typed in six numbers.

Lina's birthday.

The screen unlocked.

I sat down on the edge of the bed. Slowly.

The photo library opened. Thumbnail after thumbnail. I scrolled.

There.

Lina on our bed. My bed. She wore silk pajamas. Cream-colored with my initials on the pocket. K.T. Her hair was loose. She smiled at the camera like she owned the room.

I scrolled.

The three of them at a dining table. Candles. Wine. I recognized the restaurant. Greyson had taken me there on my birthday two years ago. Same corner table. Same bottle of Burgundy on the white cloth.

I scrolled.

A pumpkin patch. Andres sitting on Greyson's shoulders. Lina standing beside them, her hand on Greyson's back. All of them laughing.

I scrolled.

Central Park. Greyson pushing Andres on a swing. Lina's head resting on his shoulder. Her eyes closed. His face soft.

I scrolled.

Thanksgiving. A long table. Lina and Greyson at the center. Andres between them. A turkey. Candles. Other people I didn't recognize, smiling at the camera like this was normal. Like this was a family.

I stopped scrolling.

The date on that photo was November twenty-third.

I'd called Greyson that night from London. He'd said he was having a quiet Thanksgiving at home. Ordering in. Watching football.

I looked at the photo again. At the linen napkins. The wine glasses. The pie.

I put the iPad back on the nightstand. I set it at the exact angle I'd found it.

Then I lay down on my side of the bed.

The ceiling was white and blank. I stared at it and felt nothing.

No tears. No rage. Nothing.

Just a cold, clear thought.

I was the only person in this apartment who didn't know the truth.

And now I did.

---

Greyson came home after midnight. I heard his keys in the door. His footsteps in the hall.

He slipped into bed beside me. The mattress dipped.

"You awake?" he whispered.

I didn't answer.

He sighed and rolled onto his back. Within minutes, he was asleep.

I lay there and listened to him breathe.

---

In the morning, I got up before him. I walked into the bathroom and shut the door.

The light was harsh. I blinked and looked around.

Greyson's cologne sat on the shelf. Black bottle. Same one he'd used for years.

Next to it was another bottle.

Small. Glass. Amber liquid.

I picked it up and turned it over.

My perfume.

The one I'd worn since college. The one I bought in a tiny shop in Paris. The one Greyson used to bury his face in my neck and say, "That's you. I'd know it anywhere."

I unscrewed the cap. The scent hit me. Jasmine. Amber. Mine.

The bottle was half empty.

I hadn't brought this from London. I'd left my perfume there.

I stared at the bottle in my hand.

Lina had been wearing my scent.

And Greyson had let her.

Maybe he'd never noticed. Maybe he'd smelled it on her in the hallway, in the kitchen, on the couch, and thought it was me. Thought I was close even when I wasn't.

Or maybe he'd noticed.

And he hadn't cared.

I set the bottle back on the shelf. My hand was steady.

I looked at myself in the mirror. Pale. Tired. A stranger.

I thought about the photos. The Thanksgiving table. The pumpkin patch. The swing in the park.

I thought about the drawing on the fridge. Daddy. Mommy. Me.

I thought about Greyson's face when he'd caught Andres in his arms. The way he'd done it without thinking. Like he'd done it a hundred times.

Because he had.

I turned off the light and walked out.

Greyson was still asleep.

I stood in the doorway and looked at him.

Seven years.

I'd given him seven years.

And he'd built a whole life without me.