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Thursday evening had arrived, and I still hadn’t told Ben about working late tomorrow. The omission grew heavier with every tick of the living room clock.

I have to work late tomorrow. Mrs. Pegged approved the overtime. I won’t be home until after eight.

Simple. Harmless. The kind of thing normal partners told each other without their pulse spiking into dangerous territory.

But normal partners didn’t track each other’s GPS or monitor bank accounts or install cameras in the living room. Normal partners didn’t leave bruises that required color-correcting concealer and strategic wardrobe choices. Normal partners didn’t make you calculate the exact cost of every sentence before you dared to speak it.

So I’d said nothing. Let the window close. Told myself I’d bring it up after the dishes were done, then after Ben’s show ended, then after he finished scrolling through emails on his phone. Each deadline passed like an exit sign I was too afraid to take, and now here I was, standing in the kitchen at nine-fifteen with the words still lodged in my throat.

Just tell him.

Stepping out of the kitchen, I paused beneath the archway. I could hear Ben’s murmuring voice, the cadence of someone engaged in conversation.

On the phone, then. Which meant interrupting was a gamble, but waiting until after the call meant I’d talk myself out of it entirely, spending tomorrow inventing elaborate excuses for why I was late getting home.

Neither option was good. Both options were terrible. Welcome to my life, population me, my anxiety, and whatever Ben’s mood decided to be tonight.

The bedroom door stood slightly ajar, a sliver of lamplight spilling across the hardwood. My palms were damp as I dried them on my sweatpants. The house was too quiet around me, a stillness that made small sounds feel incriminating.

I took one step down the hall then another, keeping my footsteps light out of pure muscle memory. The runner muffled my feet, the hardwood barely registering my weight. The bedroom door grew closer.

Placing one hand against the wall for balance, I leaned toward the crack in the door.

My stomach tightened. I couldn’t see much beyond the edge of the dresser and the corner of the bed, but I could hear him.

Not a business call. Those had a certain clipped formality to them, a cadence I recognized after months of imprisonment.

This was different. Warmer. The consonants were softer, the pauses longer, the kind of spaces that only existed when someone was enjoying what they were hearing.

My heart thumped hard enough to make my ribs ache.

Ben murmured something too quiet to catch.

A soft, intimate laugh followed.

The hell? I held my breath and listened as my lungs quietly emptied.

“—can’t stay long.” Ben murmured. A pause. “No need to beg for it.” Another pause, then something that might have been a soft laugh. “Be there tomorrow. I have the day off, hon.”

For one suspended second, nothing in me moved. Then heat surged through my face so fast I thought I might be sick. My grip tightened against the wall, fingernails scraping paint.

Hon.

Not sweetheart. Not baby. Not any of the names Ben used on me when the neighbors were close enough to hear.

Hon.

The absurdity of it nearly made me laugh. There I was, stomach twisting over tomorrow’s work schedule like I had been asked to confess treason, while Ben stood inside our bedroom making plans with somebody else.

He could slip out, lie, and spend time, his attention, his body wherever he damn well pleased.

For him, rules were suggestions.

For me, rules were chains.

Keys on the third hook. Shoes even at the toes. Dinner hot at 6:30. Towels folded. Counters clean. Phone available. Location visible. Smile ready. Mouth shut unless opened by permission.

Ben got freedom.