“Just catching my breath.”

He brushed the back of his fingers against my cheek. I let him. I needed to test one thing first.

“Evan, I’ve been thinking. Next week, I want to move Sophie’s trust to a new firm. The old one keeps pushing fees. Lena agrees.”

His face flickered. It was tiny, only a twitch beneath his left eye, gone in half a second. Then the careful smile returned.

“Whatever you think is best, love.”

His hand closed around my wrist. Only for a moment. Only tight enough.

“We can talk about it after the honeymoon.”

“Of course,” I said.

He kissed my temple and walked back toward the ballroom, whistling softly.

I stayed in the hallway and stared at the wall. My pulse felt trapped behind my teeth. I opened my phone again, scrolling back through months of voice memos I had made for myself, grocery lists, reminders, and things I wanted to say to my dead husband when sleep would not come.

Then I found it. Eight months earlier. The dinner party where Peter had introduced me to Evan.

I had pressed record at the table so I could remember a recipe the hostess promised me, then carried the phone with me when I followed her toward the kitchen for saffron. I had set it on the console by the hallway arch while she searched a cupboard. I had forgotten to stop it.

I pressed play and lifted the phone to my ear.

Distant silverware. Laughter from the dining room. My own voice, closer, asking about saffron, then footsteps fading away. Then, as clear as if I were standing right between them, my brother’s voice came from the alcove beyond the console.

“Trust me, she’s ready. Two years of grief. She’ll say yes to anyone who’s nice to Sophie.”