The way she touched me felt wrong. Vanessa had never once held my arm in front of others. And yet, she now clung to me, her touch unnaturally forced, as if trying to reassure me.
My gaze flickered downward—to where her other hand rested lightly on Tristan's wrist. It was subtle. Almost imperceptible. But I saw it.
Had I not lived through this before, I might have brushed it off as simple affection. But I had lived through it. I had seen how this story ended.
And now, I could see what I had been blind to before.
The lingering touches. The stolen glances. The way Vanessa always spoke up in Tristan's defense.
She wasn't just my wife. She was his accomplice. And she had helped him get rid of me.
I exhaled slowly, my mind racing. My killer would be released from prison three days after I moved into that mansion. That meant if I never accepted it, if I never stepped foot inside, then history couldn't repeat itself.
"You should keep it," I said finally, my tone casual. "I'd rather live in a house I buy myself."
A flicker of surprise crossed Tristan's face, though he was quick to mask it. But Vanessa? She wasn't nearly as controlled. Her smile faltered, her brows drawing together in a frown.