The scent of citrus and lingering coffee hung heavy in the small apartment as Julia methodically loaded the last of the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher. She gave the kitchen a final, scrutinizing glance, a familiar anxiety twisting in her gut. Jeff had already left for work, and any missed dish would be met with his displeasure later. His precise rules governed her days, each action measured against an invisible standard of his approval.

She wiped down the already pristine counters, the quiet hum of the dishwasher a dull backdrop to her thoughts. Jeff didn't want her to work, even though they desperately needed the money. His salary, she suspected, was a precarious illusion, spent mostly on maintaining appearances, leaving them drowning in credit card debt.

Today was their two-year anniversary. He hadn't said anything this morning. They'd had sex, as they did every morning, then he'd rushed out the door before 8:00 AM, leaving her to the quiet routine of cleaning, shopping, and secretly working on her art—a forbidden indulgence Jeff knew nothing about.

She dressed for the market, pulling on a jacket despite the warm spring day. Jeff insisted she cover herself, muttering threats about 'wandering eyes.' A chill, unrelated to the weather, ran down her spine. He’d never hurt her, not physically, but she believed he might.

Just as she neared the market, her phone buzzed. It was Jeff.

"Party tonight," he said, his voice clipped. "Merriweather just got a huge account, and he's celebrating. Meet me at Merriweather Towers at seven. Wear your silver dress."

Disappointment, sharp and cold, pierced through her. Their anniversary, forgotten. But then, a flicker of something else: an invitation. He wanted her there. Maybe, just maybe, this meant things were finally looking up for them, for him at work. A fragile hope bloomed in her chest, pushing back against the familiar dread. She had to believe it.