Alexander
From his window above, he lets out a quiet, amused laugh.
Two women—Raf and this Wendy character he’s heard so much about—scrapping like sparrows over the same dying worm, only to scatter, wild and wounded, into the empty sky.
Too perfect.
He’s about to turn away when something catches his eye.
Lili’s door creaks open. Her hedge-fund husband steps out, glancing around, quick and furtive, then strides through the gate.
Then, across the courtyard, another door opens. The platinum blonde. The one who always looks halfway to blackout. Daphne.
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She follows Casey. A few paces behind. Out the gate.
Alexander’s mind clicks into motion. Something about the choreography is… off.
He leans in, watching. Through the archway, he sees them now—the familiarity in their body language. Daphne tilts her head. She touches Casey’s waist. He shifts. Glances over his shoulder. They’re nervous.
Alexander doesn’t wait. By the time he’s downstairs, slipping into the archway’s shadow, they’re already peeling off. Casey’s Porsche glides out of the private drive, and seconds later, Daphne’s battered hatchback follows. It would seem irrelevant. But Alexander knows better. Lili’s voice resurfaces, cracking around those carefully chosen words, trying not to break. He’s distracted. Distant. Always working late…
She hadn’t needed to say the rest. He’d seen it in her eyes: that haunted flicker of a woman who already knows. And now, here it is. Undeniable. Playing out before him like a script—one he fully intends to rewrite.