The house was eerily quiet when you stepped through the front door, until the muffled sounds from the guest bedroom reached your ears—low laughter and the unmistakable rustle of sheets. Your husband was at it again, not even bothering to hide his affair in a hotel this time.

As you turned toward the living room, you realized you weren't the only one who knew.

Cillian was sitting in the high-backed leather chair, perfectly composed, his clothes neat and his expression unreadable. He didn't look surprised. He looked like he had been waiting for you. A glass of amber liquid sat untouched on the table beside him.

"You're late," Cillian said, his voice deep and cutting through the silence. He didn't offer a polite greeting or a comforting word. He had no use for manners.

He gestured vaguely toward the guest wing with a flick of his wrist. "He’s in there. With the girl from the gallery. They've been at it for twenty minutes."