Dinners used to feel like candlelit laughter around that table. Not that Vivian joined them every night; she often worked late, but whenever she slid into her chair the room brightened. Harvey's easy banter with Ivy would bounce off the walls, and every so often they'd tug Vivian into the game: "Mommy, tell Daddy why the sky's afraid of the moon!" The three of them would dissolve into giggles, forks clattering, wineglasses chiming.
This morning the same table felt like a tribunal.
Sunlight poured through the tall windows, turning the maple wood gold, yet every ray seemed to spotlight the ugliness coiled inside her. The scrambled eggs tasted of ash; the bacon snapped between her teeth like brittle accusations. She chewed and chewed, but nothing would go down. Sin, it turned out, had a flavor: metallic, sour, impossible to swallow.
"Are you all right?" Harvey's voice drifted across the plates, gentle, probing.
Vivian's gaze stayed fixed on the silver fork trembling in her hand. The dining room revolved slowly, a carousel of guilt.
"Vivian!"
She flinched so hard the water glass rocked. "Sorry," she whispered, forcing her mouth into something that wanted to be a smile. It felt like lifting weights with her cheeks.
Harvey's eyes narrowed. Ten years of mornings had taught him every shade of her mood. The way her left eyebrow twitched when she lied. The way her shoulders folded inward when shame sat on them. He saw it all now, clear as the crystal chandelier above them.
"I'm fine, baby," she said, but the words arrived flat, wrapped in tissue paper.
"Daddy, Uncle Vincent promised an aquarium for my birthday!" Ivy chirped, spearing peas with the precision of a tiny assassin. Most eight-year-olds waged war on vegetables; Ivy treated them like treasure.
Harvey ruffled the dark curls that smelled of strawberry shampoo. "Uncle Vincent keeps his promises, munchkin." His smile was warm, but it cracked the moment he looked back at Vivian. She had turned her face to the window, sunlight carving sharp lines beneath her cheekbones. In a heartbeat he catalogued the changes he'd been too busy to notice: the hollows beneath her eyes, the skin that had lost its dew, the way her pulse fluttered at the base of her throat like a trapped moth.
"V," he said softly, sliding his hand across the linen cloth to cover hers. Her fingers were ice. "You know you can tell me anything, right?"
She stared at their joined hands as if they belonged to strangers.
"Are you sick?" The question slipped out before he could soften it.
Ivy's head snapped up. "Is Mommy sick?"
Harvey shook his head too fast. "Mommy's just tired, sweetheart. Eat your steak." He pinched Ivy's cheek until she beamed and attacked the beef with renewed gusto.
Vivian rose abruptly, plate balanced on her palm like a waiter's tray. She fled to the kitchen before either of them could protest.
In the sudden quiet she set the plate beside the sink and stared at the steak Harvey had grilled to perfect crisscross char. Two hours ago she'd stumbled through the front door, head pounding, reeking of courthouse corridors and panic. Harvey had been at the stove in that ridiculous "Kiss the Cook" apron, humming Sinatra. Five years earlier she would have circled his waist from behind, nipped his earlobe, slid her hand down the front of his jeans until he groaned against the spatula. They'd have christened the marble island before the sauce even simmered, then again after dessert, then once more on the stairs because neither could bear the thought of separate bedrooms.
Now the memory felt like a museum piece behind glass: look, but never touch again.
Her chest cinched so tight she had to grip the counter. Harvey was everything her father never was: hair like black silk, eyes the color of sea glass, shoulders sculpted by dawn runs and heavier weights than most men dared. He made seven figures moving other people's money, yet still carried the grocery bags so she wouldn't scuff her heels. And she—she had taken that gift and ground it beneath her heel.
Hot tears welled, scalding the rims of her eyes. She bent over the sink, willing the floor to split and swallow her whole.
She never heard him enter. One moment there was only the hum of the refrigerator; the next, strong arms folded around her from behind, anchoring her to the earth she wanted to disappear from.
"Hey," Harvey breathed into her hair. "I'm right here, V. Always."
That was the problem. He was always here—steady, kind, infuriatingly good. She spun in the circle of his arms and buried her face against his collar, breathing in cedar and coffee and the faint trace of the cologne she'd bought him last Christmas.
"I'm sorry," she choked.
"Shh." He stroked her back in slow, patient circles. "Whatever it is, we'll fix it. Just… talk when you're ready."
The doorbell sliced through the house like a scalpel.
"Mommy!" Ivy sang from the dining room.
Harvey pressed a kiss to Vivian's temple. "Stay here. She doesn't need to see you crying. I'll handle the door."
He slipped away. Vivian swiped at her cheeks with the heel of her hand, smearing mascara into war paint.
At the threshold Harvey found a tall man in a charcoal coat, smile sharp enough to shave with.
"You must be Harvey Holman." The stranger extended a manicured hand. "Marcus Lee, District Attorney."
Harvey's grip was automatic. "Evening. How can I help you?"
"I'm afraid I'm interrupting family time," Marcus said, not sounding afraid at all. "Your wife's been assisting my office on a sensitive case. I need five minutes."
Harvey stepped aside. "Of course. Come in."
Marcus crossed the foyer like he'd designed it himself, hands on hips, eyes cataloguing every detail: the abstract oil over the credenza, the crystal bowl of lemons, the little girl frozen mid-bite at the table.
"Beautiful home," he remarked, peeling off kid-leather gloves and tucking them into his pocket. "That must be Ivy."
Harvey's smile tightened. "Yes. Sweetheart, finish your milk. I'll fetch Mom."
He disappeared toward the kitchen. Marcus crouched to Ivy's eye level.
"Hi, Ivy. I'm a friend of your mommy's."
Ivy blinked, unimpressed. "Mommy says no talking to strangers."
Marcus chuckled. "Smart girl. But I work with her."
"Mommy only has two friends," Ivy announced, counting on sticky fingers. "Uncle Michael and Uncle Vincent." She returned to her peas as if he'd evaporated.
In the kitchen Vivian had heard every syllable through the open window. Her heart dropped into her stomach and kept falling. She paced in tight circles, palms pressed to her mouth to keep the scream inside.
"Vivian." Harvey's voice, gentle but edged with worry. "The DA's here. Says you're helping him."
She smoothed her blouse, squared her shoulders, and walked into the living room like a defendant approaching the bench.
Ivy was mid-question—"How do you know Mommy?"—when Vivian appeared. One look at Marcus and her stomach lurched so violently she tasted bile.
"We work together," she managed.
Marcus ignored the tremor in her voice. "I was expecting a reply tonight." He let the sentence hang, heavy as a noose.
Vivian's gaze darted to Harvey, leaning against the archway, arms folded, eyes unreadable. She swallowed. "Baby, why don't you and Ivy start the dishes? It's Daddy-Dish Night."
Harvey read the plea in her eyes. He scooped Ivy up; she squealed with delight and waved a sticky hand at the stranger. When their footsteps faded, Vivian whirled on Marcus.
"What the hell are you doing in my house?"
Marcus pulled out a chair and sat as if he'd been invited to high tea. "You know exactly why I'm here. I get what I want, Vivian. I gave you a week to think. Clock's up."
"Not in my home," she hissed, teeth grinding.
"Especially in your home." He adjusted his cufflinks. "I already paid Sheila Salvatore a visit. Dropped a few hints about her husband's… extracurricular expenses. She's terrified."
Vivian's knees buckled. She caught the back of a chair. "Why are you doing this?"
"Because I'm justice with a warrant, darling. I'm the bill collector for every lie you've ever told." His smile never reached his eyes. "And rent is due."
"You're asking me to frame an innocent man."
"Frame?" Marcus laughed softly. "You've been framing the truth for a decade. One more signature won't chafe."
"Vincent will tear your case apart. And how do I know you won't come back next month for something worse?"
Marcus rose, buttoning his coat. "You don't." He started toward the kitchen. "But I can make this simple. One word to Harvey about our little arrangement—"
"No!" She lunged, fingers clawing his sleeve. "Please."
He kept walking.
The words burst out of her, raw and ragged: "I'll do it."
Marcus paused beneath the chandelier. Slowly he turned, victory curling his mouth into something almost tender.
"Nine o'clock tomorrow. My office. Don't be late." He reached the door, then glanced back. "Every night you slide into bed beside him, remember I know exactly what you are."
The door clicked shut.
Vivian's legs gave out. She caught the chair before she hit the marble, knuckles white. This was the unmasking she'd dreaded since the first lie left her lips. She had sworn she would never become her father—never carve her spouse's heart out with secrets and other men's beds. Yet here she stood, worse than he'd ever been.
Footsteps on the stairs. Harvey's voice, warm with forced cheer: "Who wants Frozen Two?"
Ivy whooped and raced for the couch.
Vivian wiped her face, painted on a smile that cracked the moment Harvey's eyes met hers.
"Mind telling me what that was about?" he asked quietly.
"Just… an investigation at Moretti Homes. That priest murder."
Harvey's brow creased. "Is Vincent mixed up in it?"
"No," she lied, and the word tasted like rust. "He'd never."
But doubt flickered. She had seen Vincent bend laws until they screamed, had watched him smile while men disappeared into courtrooms or coffins. She knew the office Vincent, not the midnight Vincent. Maybe Michael had been right all along.
"Go start the movie with Ivy," she said. "I'll grab blankets."
Harvey hesitated, then climbed the stairs two at a time. In the bedroom he locked the door, pulled his phone from the nightstand, and scrolled to a contact he hadn't touched in months.
The line clicked.
"Moretti estate, Carlos speaking."
"It's Harvey Holman. Put Vincent on. Tell him it's urgent."
Hold music—some syrupy violin—then Vincent's voice, smooth as aged bourbon.
"Harvey. Trouble?"
"I should be asking you that." Harvey's grip tightened until the plastic creaked. "Are you blackmailing my wife?"