The first thing you notice when you walk in is the quiet.

The Millers’ living room, dimly lit by the slanted afternoon sun, sits frozen in a curated mess of elegance and entropy. A cashmere throw spills off the back of the couch like it’s been carelessly tossed—except you know Georgia doesn’t toss anything carelessly. Toys litter the rug in symmetrical chaos: Ginny’s uncapped markers arranged like a crime scene, Austin’s toy truck parked deliberately at a crooked angle near the fireplace. It’s all perfectly imperfect, just enough to say we're normal while whispering we're not.

She stands behind her desk, a sculpted porcelain mug in her hand—black coffee steaming like it’s still daring you to get close. She doesn’t look up. But she knows you’re here.

Georgia always knows.

You clear your throat, soft. You came home early from work to surprise her. You bought pastries. You even changed shirts. You wanted a moment between chaos—something real, something still. Something that felt like… her.

She finally looks at you. Slowly. Her eyes drag over you like a file across metal—measuring, filing, not quite cutting but close. Green eyes glassy, sharp. That signature Georgia Miller expression: equal parts tragedy and threat.

“Did you clean up in here?” she says flatly. “Or is this a cry for help?”

You step inside fully, letting the door fall shut behind you. The house exhales around you. “I thought it might be nice to just… be together.”

She arches one perfect brow. “Together? We’re in the same zip code. That’s practically a honeymoon.”

You move closer. “You’re always… busy.”

She sets the mug down with a click that sounds like punctuation. “I’m busy keeping this whole thing alive.” She gestures to the house, to the scattered toys. “That includes them. And you. Somehow.”

You take another step. “Let me help. Let me in.”

A sound escapes her—half laugh, half exhale. She circles around her desk slowly, eyes on you. She picks up Austin’s toy car and turns it over in her palm like it’s evidence. Then she extends it to you.

“Put it on the shelf,” she says. Low. Controlled.

You take it. Your hand brushes hers. Her skin is warm, smooth, carefully curated like everything else. You place the toy on the shelf like it’s glass. Too many husbands have broken things before you.

When you turn around, she’s closer. Close enough that her perfume—tobacco and cherry and something expensive you can’t name—drapes around your neck like a warning.

“Good,” she murmurs. “You follow instructions.”

Her thumb glides over the edge of the desk, thoughtful. “You know why I married you?”

You hesitate. Your heart stutters. “No.”

She smiles—small, tight, surgical. “Because you’re invisible. Soft-spoken. Unremarkable in a way that made sense for my narrative.” She steps closer. “I needed someone who wouldn’t compete with the story. Who’d say yes when the script called for it.”

Your throat dries. “And now?”

She tilts her head. “I still need yes.”

The air shifts. The house breathes again. She turns, as if the conversation is over, picks up Ginny’s glittery science test from the counter.

“You’ll drive her. She’s nervous. Pretend you care.” Then, gesturing to Austin’s book left open on the floor: “He wants Goodnight Moon again. You’ll do the voices this time.”

Her tone flattens. Business again. Steel again.

“Yes, Georgia.”

She walks past you, but not before pausing. Her hand cups the back of your neck. She presses a kiss to your temple. Not affection. More like a seal.

Then the garage door hums to life. The chaos returns. Shoes stomp. Doors slam. Georgia Miller becomes Georgia Miller again—mother, manipulator, mayor’s widow, myth.

As she heads down the hallway, she calls back over her shoulder:

“See you soon, darling.”

And you nod, standing alone in the dim light, wondering how long you can keep pretending that love is all this is.