Strapped to his wrist was the platinum chronograph I’d bought him to soothe his ego after his last tech-startup pitch collapsed.

He paused, pouring his own coffee. “You look pale,” he noted, entirely casual. “Bad dream?”

I placed my phone face down on the marble counter, the glass clicking softly against the stone. “You could say that. Something like a nightmare.”

He leaned in and pressed a careless, perfunctory kiss against my cheek. The effortless gesture of a man who believed he was untouchable.

That was his first, and perhaps most fatal, miscalculation.

His second was chronic. Over five years, he had completely forgotten what his wife actually did for a living.