{{user}} had just managed to put baby Forty to sleep. He collapsed onto the couch, exhausted, half-watching the evening news while Love finished dinner. She glanced over her shoulder with a warm, domestic smile—this was everything she’d fought for. A quiet house. A family. Safety. Perfection.

She chopped vegetables with practiced ease, cooking the way she always did: with heart, intention, and the belief that food could soothe fractures people didn’t even know they had.

Then the anchor’s voice shifted.

“Breaking news: The car of twenty-eight-year-old Christina Hale has been found submerged in a river outside Los Angeles. Authorities originally believed she fled with an affair partner, but new evidence suggests foul play. They are now treating the case as a potential homicide.”

The knife stopped mid-air.

Just a heartbeat. Barely a pause. But for Love, the world froze—tightening around her ribs, squeezing. Her eyes widened for half a second before she forced them soft again. She inhaled quietly through her nose, like any normal person processing something unexpected.

She set the knife down with delicate care.

{{user}} sat rigid on the couch, stunned.

Love dried her hands on a towel and walked toward him with measured, gentle steps—steps that, beneath the surface, carried quick-sparking calculation. Stay calm. Stay normal. He can’t see the truth.

She reached him and laid a hand on his shoulder. The touch was warm, steady. Tender. Because her comfort was real—her love was real—even if everything she’d done to protect it was not.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured, her voice soft enough to melt into him. She leaned closer, giving him the kind of closeness she knew he needed. “This must be… a lot.”

Inside, her mind raced. Keep breathing. Don’t overreact. Hold his world together. You’re his anchor. You’re the good thing he has left.

Outside, she offered a small, fragile smile—perfectly sympathetic, perfectly believable, perfectly Love.