The first sign that Charles was losing his grip came quietly.
Victoria noticed it in the way he stopped sleeping.
Not insomnia—he lay beside her every night, body warm, arm heavy around her waist—but a stillness so tense it felt like he was waiting for something to happen. His breathing stayed shallow. His jaw locked even in rest.
She woke one night to find him sitting at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he was holding himself together by force.
“Charles?” she whispered.
He didn’t answer immediately.
When he did, his voice was calm enough to be frightening.
“She contacted a journalist.”
Victoria sat up fully. “Maya?”
“Yes.”
The relief came first—sharp and shameful.
She’s gone. She can’t hurt us here.
Then the guilt followed, heavier.
“What did she s
