Page 81 of The Silent Hour

“I texted you around six,” she said. “No answer. Your last location didn’t move. I figured you finally collapsed somewhere in this mausoleum of an office.”

I glanced at my phone on the desk. “Battery,” I muttered.

“Assumed as much.” Julia handed me one of the coffees. Steam curled toward her chin. “I brought breakfast. And clothes—because unless Armani’s debuting a ‘slept in a chair after making terrible life choices’ collection, you need them.”

My throat tightened. I stared at her.

She frowned—a quick dip of her brow. “What?”

Everything. Nothing. My wife had tracked me down, packed fresh clothes, bought my favorite breakfast, driven into the city because she knew I’d worked myself raw, and now I had to tell her I’d kissed another woman.

I set the coffee down, untouched. Julia’s face shifted immediately—her eyes sharpening as she leaned forward. “What happened?”

No point hiding. “Lia.”

Her shoulders snapped square. “What happened?”

I pulled in a breath. “After Eric and Rafa left to get food, I went for a walk. I passed Lila’s office.”

She waited, the silence pressing.

“She was there.”

Julia’s humor drained away. “Why?”

“She’d found out about Cortez—through her mother, apparently. She was upset. Drinking.”

Julia crossed her arms, dark denim creasing at her elbows. “And you went inside.”

I hated her gaze—it could peel paint. “The door was open.”

“Continue.”

All the little legalistic defenses buzzed in my head—arrange the facts in my favor. I shoved them away.

“She kissed me.”

Her voice came, low. “And?”

One word. She knew there was more.

“I didn’t stop her immediately.”

Julia’s expression didn’t shift. “How long?”

“A few seconds.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Did you kiss her back?”

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to meet her gaze. “Yes.”

Silence fell again. Dense, heavy. My chest tightened until I could barely breathe. Julia looked away, pressed her tongue to the inside of her cheek. Then she nodded slowly.

“Okay.”

I wanted to scream at her. “Lia.”

She held up one finger. “Don’t.”