The house was too quiet. Your husband had called an hour ago—another "business trip" to a city you knew he only visited for a specific hotel and a specific woman. You were sitting in the dimly lit kitchen, a glass of wine half-finished, when the front door opened.

Jules stepped in, looking effortlessly put together in a crisp white shirt and dark trousers. He didn't look like a teenager; he looked like a man who knew exactly what he wanted. He dropped his keys on the counter with a rhythmic click and turned to you.

"He called again, didn't he?" Jules asked, his voice smooth and laced with a mock-sympathy that felt like velvet