The smell of those lilies was nauseating. To anyone else, the bouquet on the mahogany console was a romantic gesture; to Julianne, it was a tombstone. They were the white, waxy price of Arthur’s victory in court, a floral receipt for another month of her silence.

She stood in the foyer, the weight of her leather satchel digging into her shoulder, listening to the house breathe. It was a suffocating, expensive kind of quiet. Then, a soft thud. Upstairs, Leo was kicking his mattress. At two years old, her son had already mastered the art of the "quiet play"—a survival instinct honed in a home where a toddler’s joy was treated like a noise violation.

"Julianne? You're late."

Arthur’s voice didn't come from the room; it cut through the air like a scalpel. He didn't look up from his desk as she passed the study. He looked revitalized, fed by the adrenaline of crushing someone in a deposition. He was a man who only knew how to love a winner, and since Julianne provided the perfect, static backdrop for his life, she was currently in his good graces.

"The traffic was heavy," she lied, her voice a flat, academic monotone. It was the same voice she used to discuss the martyrdom of saints in her 10:00 AM seminar. She felt like a martyr herself, pinned to the wall by the sheer weight of his indifference.

"I won the Miller case," he said, finally glancing at her. His eyes didn't see her exhaustion; they saw a witness to his greatness. "I expect a proper dinner. And keep the boy upstairs. I have a conference call at seven and I can’t have him screaming like a banshee."

Julianne didn't argue. She never argued. She just twisted her wedding ring—up to the knuckle, back to the base, a frantic, hidden rhythm.

She escaped upstairs, the air growing thinner with every step. When she pushed open the nursery door, the dim glow of the moth-shaped nightlight hit Leo’s face. He was sitting up, clutching a headless stuffed rabbit, his eyes wide and hauntingly watchful. He didn't cry. He didn't even babble. He just reached for her with a desperate, silent urgency that broke what was left of her heart.

She scooped him up, collapsing into the rocking chair. She pressed her face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of milk and unfulfilled potential.

"I’ve got you," she hissed into the dark, her voice trembling for the first time all day. "I've got you, Leo.

Outside the door, the floorboards groaned under the weight of a husband who was already moving on to his next conquest, leaving her to drown in the "calm" she had spent thirty years perfecting.