THE CONTRACT SHE NEVER SIGNED FOR

The cloth had gone warm fifteen minutes ago. Aria pressed it against her wrist anyway. The mark wasn't so noticeable. It wasn't the kind of thing anyone would notice unless they were looking for it. Four faint fingerprints circling her skin. A reminder. "Where have you been?" That was all she'd asked. Not where were you. Not who were you with. Not why are you late. Just where have you been. Cole's hand had closed around her wrist before she'd finished the sentence. The apartment was quiet now. Eleven o'clock. The city glowed beyond the windows. Everything inside the apartment looked perfect. Aria had made sure of that. The flowers on the console table had been replaced yesterday. The shelves in the living room were arranged carefully. The cushions matched. The lighting was warm. The kitchen counters gleamed. Every corner carried traces of her effort. Cole had never acknowledged any of it. Not once. She lowered the cloth. Then she started making a list. The blue mug. Mine. The books. Mine. The framed photograph of her and her father. Mine. The dining table. Cole's. The apartment. Cole's. The artwork. Cole's. The wine collection. Cole's. The sofa. Cole's. The piano nobody touched. Cole's. She stared across the room. Two years. Two years of living here. Two years of arranging flowers. Two years of hosting dinners. Two years of smiling beside a husband who barely looked at her. The apartment looked like home. It wasn't. The paperwork belonged to Cole. The mortgage belonged to Cole. The address belonged to Cole. Some days she wondered whether she belonged to Cole too. Her phone buzzed. She picked it up immediately. Nothing. An email. Not him. Of course not him. Cole didn't text. Cole gave instructions. Cole informed. Cole summoned. Communication implied interest. And Cole had none in her. Aria stood and walked into the kitchen. The kettle was already filled. She had filled it hours ago. Back when she'd thought they might have dinner together. The third Tuesday. Three Tuesdays. Three dinners gone cold. Three evenings spent waiting. The kettle clicked on. She leaned against the counter. The dark window reflected her face. Tired. Not broken. Just tired. The water boiled. She poured it into a mug. Tea. Simple. Predictable. Unlike everything else. The dining table seated eight people comfortably. Aria carried her tea to one end and sat alone. She looked at the empty chairs. A ridiculous amount of space. A ridiculous amount of silence. She picked up her fork. Took a bite of reheated pasta. Chewed. Swallowed. Another bite. Her phone lit up. Her stomach tightened before she could stop it. A message. Not Cole. Nadia. "You still awake?" Aria stared at the screen. Then typed. "Unfortunately." The reply came immediately. "That bad?" Aria glanced at her wrist. Then at the empty chair across from her. "I've had better Tuesdays." The typing bubble appeared instantly. "Want company?" A smile tugged at her mouth. "It's eleven." "Exactly. Prime friendship hours." "You have work tomorrow." "So do you." Aria looked down. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. No. That was the honest answer. No, she wasn't okay. No, she didn't want to sit alone. No, she didn't want another Tuesday that felt exactly like the last one. Instead she typed: "I'm okay." Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. "You sure?" Her throat tightened. No. She deleted the word before sending it. "Yes." Another pause. "Okay. But I'm calling tomorrow." "You always do." "Because somebody has to." Aria laughed softly. "Goodnight, Nadia." "Goodnight, mysterious woman who never tells me anything." Aria set the phone aside. The smile lingered for a few seconds. Then faded. She finished eating. Alone. The way she usually did. When she was done, she carried the plate to the sink. One plate. One fork. One glass. The dishwasher sat empty. She washed everything. Dried everything. Put everything away. The routine never changed. Her eyes drifted toward the clock. 11:24. Cole wasn't coming home. Or maybe he was. That was the problem. She genuinely didn't know. Sometimes midnight. Sometimes two in the morning. Sometimes not at all. Once he'd disappeared for two days. When he'd returned she'd asked if everything was okay. The memory surfaced before she could stop it. "I'm your wife." Cole had looked up from his phone. "And?" "You were gone for two days." "I had work." "You couldn't call?" His expression hadn't changed. "You knew I wasn't dead." That had been the end of the conversation. Not because she'd accepted the answer. Because he'd already moved on. Aria switched off the kitchen lights. The apartment darkened. She walked through the living room. Every object sat exactly where she had placed it. Perfect. Untouched. Unnoticed. A memory surfaced. A charity gala six months ago. Someone had smiled at Cole. Then turned to ask her. "So how did you two love birds meet?" Aria had opened her mouth to answer. Cole answered first. "Mutual circumstances." Everyone laughed. The conversation moved on. Nobody looked at her. Nobody asked for her version. Another memory followed. A board dinner. One of Cole's investors had mentioned healthcare reform. Aria had spoken. "I actually read a report about—" Cole cut in before she'd finished with a scoff. "The market isn't interested in theory." The people around the table laughed awkwardly. The conversation continued. Nobody noticed she had stopped speaking. Or maybe they noticed and just didn’t care. Maybe it was easier not to care. Aria climbed the stairs. The master bedroom door stood open. She didn't even glance inside. The guest room waited halfway down the hallway. Her room. Not officially. Practically. She stepped inside. The lamp clicked on. She changed into an oversized T-shirt. Removed her makeup. Brushed her teeth. Another routine. Another quiet night. She climbed into bed. The sheets were cool. The room felt still. No footsteps. No doors opening. No indication that another person lived in the apartment. Her phone rested on the nightstand. Dark. Silent. Aria reached toward the lamp. Then paused. A different memory surfaced. A corporate event. A woman had smiled at her. "You must be so proud of your husband." Aria had smiled back. Before she could answer, Cole had stepped in. "She doesn't concern herself with business." The woman nodded. The conversation moved on. Aria remembered standing there holding a champagne glass. Not embarrassed. Not angry. Just erased. The lamp clicked off. Darkness settled over the room. The city painted faint lines of light across the ceiling. She folded her hands over her stomach. Twelve months. The number appeared automatically. Twelve months left. One year. Three hundred sixty-five days. The original contract had been three years. Two already gone. One remained. She knew the exact date it ended. She had counted twice this week. Not because she was desperate. Because facts helped. Facts stayed where you left them. People didn't. Cole certainly didn't. A siren echoed faintly somewhere downtown. Then faded. The apartment remained silent. The bed remained cold. The city kept moving. Aria stared at the ceiling. Twelve months. She wasn't counting up anymore. She was counting down. Twelve months left on the original contract term. And for the first time in two years, she was counting every single day.