The house still smelled faintly of perfume and champagne the next morning, like a memory that wouldn’t let go. I woke with the satin of the gala dress still clinging to my skin, the ache of Conley’s hands embedded in muscle and bone. For a few slow heartbeats I let the afterglow roll through me—the stolen, precise pleasure we’d taken after guests left—then the day’s shape slid back into view: Angel testing, Conley weaving, and me, the woman who had to be both blade and balm.
Conley was awake before me; I could hear the soft scrape of his shoes, the low rustle of a newspaper as he read. He liked the quiet hours, the ordered morning that set a rhythm for the chaos of his days. I dressed in the kitchen light—simple blouse, pencil skirt, hair pulled into a harsh knot—and moved like machinery.
