Wild, isn’t it?” And Julian — I will remember this the rest of my life — did not so much as blink.

He didn’t drop his fork.

His face didn’t change color.

He laughed, a warm easy laugh from deep in his chest, so natural that it raised the hair on my arms, and he shook his head fondly at our son.

“He’s been watching those ghost-hunter shows again,” he said, refilling his wine, unbothered.

“He knows our room’s off-limits.

Oh — the cleaning service sent a new girl last week, a blonde.

He probably saw her dusting and built a whole story out of it.” He reached across the table and folded my hand in his, gazing at me with a devotion so perfectly performed it belonged on a stage.