The Montgomery master bedroom was a private cathedral of rot — expensive, tasteful, and completely hollow. Two separate beds. Two separate nightstands.
A deliberate, measured gap between the matching headboards like a demilitarized zone carved into thousand-dollar furniture. The room had cost more than most people's homes, decorated in tasteful neutrals and subtle luxury, but it reeked of a marriage that had been dead and rotting from the inside for years.
Jonathan stood by the window, still in his dinner suit, tie loosened like a noose he'd decided not to tighten yet.
He watched his wife's reflection in the dark glass, eyes flat and calculating.
Roxanne moved through the room with the careful precision and quietly. She had learned to make herself small in her own home.
Every step measured. Every movement quiet and every breath was controlled.
"Where were you?"
