Patrick entered the kitchen with a woman beside him. She was slim, polished, dressed as though she were heading to a private event rather than stepping into another woman’s home. Her hair was perfectly styled, her posture relaxed, her eyes sharp with curiosity.
“Emma,” Patrick said calmly, “this is Heather. She works with me. It ran late today, so we grabbed dinner. You can put something together for us, something good.”
It was not a request. It was a command disguised as familiarity.
Heather looked me over slowly, her gaze assessing me from head to toe as if I were an old piece of furniture that had lost its shine.
“Nice to finally meet you,” she said with a polite smile. “Patrick talks about you sometimes. He says you are very quiet.”
I nodded. “Please have a seat,” I replied evenly. “Dinner is almost ready.”
Patrick smiled, satisfied. Twelve years of marriage had taught him that I did not argue. He believed my calm was obedience. He believed silence meant surrender.