Camila's POV
The wine was a good one.
Ian had picked it — one of the bottles from the case his business associate had sent over from Tuscany last spring, the kind that cost enough to make you pay attention to it.
I opened it an hour ago and poured two glasses.
Ian had taken his to his office and I'd taken mine to the sitting room and that was fine. That was how evenings worked in this house lately. Separate rooms, separate silences, the appearance of a shared life conducted from a comfortable distance.
It was fine.
I curled my feet beneath me on the sofa and looked at the room. Everything exactly where it should be. The flowers Petra had arranged Tuesday were still fresh on the side table. The cushions are straight. My phone lit up on the cushion beside me.
The contact.
I picked
