Katherine sat in her parked car outside their suburban home, the engine idling while the dashboard clock blinked red. The digital photo on her phone—captured with ruthless clarity at the wine bar—glowed in the dark cabin. Her husband, Reginald, laughing under warm pendant lights while a woman with striking red hair stroked his forearm.

On a crisp Saturday afternoon, Katherine visited an upscale downtown art gallery to view an exhibition curated by one of her college friends. The gallery was filled with soft instrumental music, murmuring patrons, and large, abstract canvases splashed with vibrant colors.

As she turned the corner near the gallery's back sculpture garden, she froze.

Standing near a massive installation of hammered bronze was Reginald. He was wearing a plain, unbranded jacket, looking thin and gaunt, nervously holding a plastic cup of cheap white wine. Beside him stood Chloe Vance, though the glossy confidence she had possessed at the wine bar had entirely vanished; she was speaking to him in sharp, clipped whispers, her expression rigid with hostility.

For a heartbeat, Katherine considered turning around and walking back toward the front entrance.

Instead, she adjusted the lapel of her tailored cream blazer, squared her shoulders, and walked directly past them toward the garden exit.

Reginald caught movement in his peripheral vision and turned his head. His eyes locked onto Katherine.

He stopped mid-sentence. Chloe followed his gaze, her face flushing crimson as she recognized the woman from the corporate audit files.

Katherine didn't slow down. She didn't glare, nor did she smirk. She simply looked at them with absolute, unbothered neutrality—the look one might give two strangers standing awkwardly in a hotel lobby.

"Katherine," Reginald whispered, taking an involuntary half-step toward her before stopping himself.

Katherine paused for just a fraction of a second, turned her head slightly, and offered a polite, distant nod.