That four six-year-olds had walked out of a washroom wearing my face and nothing outside the car had changed.

That the woman I had spent six years trying to forget had looked at me with fear in her eyes.

That I was supposed to be proposing to somebody else in under three hours.

The phone buzzed again.

Genevieve, this time.

I pressed my fingers against the bridge of my nose.

“Take me home.”

“To the estate, sir?”