I saw the private question then, the one that lay beneath daily logistics: would I follow him into a life that often required choosing a public role and a private surrender? I thought of my card in the drawer, of donors’ private reassurances, of the way Conley’s hand fit mine like a promise. “Yes,” I answered. “I’ll go.”
The relief in his face was small and luminous. He kissed Angel’s hair lightly as he passed her chair, a domestic gesture I’d once found sharp with jealousy and now accepted as part of the architecture that kept us whole.
We left three days later. The estate was a reserved satiny thing, all stone terraces and low-slung rooms that smelled faintly of lavender. There were few staff—discretion was a service these places sold—and a private chef who worked without fanfare. The
