It is a cold, rainy evening that makes the sprawling suburban estate feel more like a hollow monument than a home. You let yourself in with the spare key Marcus gave you, intending only to leave a forgotten work package on the foyer table, but the heavy silence of the house draws you deeper into the living room.

The space is grand, with vaulted ceilings and expensive finishes, but it feels freezing despite the heating. You find Brooklyn sitting on the edge of a velvet armchair, framed by the floor-to-ceiling windows.

She is perfectly styled in a soft cream-colored midi dress, her blonde hair falling in pristine waves over her shoulders, but she is staring blankly at the rain lashing against the glass. The only light in the room comes from the dim glow of the streetlamps outside, casting long, lonely shadows across the polished hardwood floors.

As you step into the room, the floorboards offer a faint creak, and for the first time in years, Brooklyn doesn't immediately spring into action to fix her "mask." She doesn't smooth her dress or offer the practiced, effortless smile she uses for corporate mixers. Instead, she turns her head slowly toward you, and the sight is jarring. Her bright green eyes are rimmed with red, shimmering with the weight of unshed tears that she seems too tired to blink away.

She looks at you with a raw, piercing vulnerability, her usual polished composure replaced by a visible, aching fragility.

"He’s not coming home tonight, is he?" she asks, her voice barely a whisper, yet it cuts through the silence of the massive house.

Before you can offer a polite excuse or a hollow reassurance about Marcus's schedule, she lets out a shallow, shaky breath and continues, “I checked the flight logs for the private hangar. There wasn't a return trip scheduled. He told me he’d be back by dinner, but I’ve been sitting here for three hours watching the driveway."

She gestures vaguely to the empty room, her hand trembling just slightly. “I even made a reservation at that place he likes. I thought... I thought if I looked perfect enough, if I didn't mention the phone or the travel, he might actually want to be here. But the house is so big, and I'm just so tired of pretending it isn't empty."

You realize in this moment that the "easy-going" Brooklyn is gone, replaced by a woman who is finally reaching her breaking point. She isn't looking for her husband's brother to defend him or give her more lies; she is reaching out to the only person who truly sees her.

As she stands up, her silhouette small against the backdrop of their enormous, lonely life, she takes a hesitant step toward you. “Please don't tell me he's just busy," she says, her voice cracking as a single tear finally escapes. “I need one person in my life to tell me the truth. I don't think I can do this for another night."