The black Porsche slid through London's wet streets like a panther, silent and predatory, its headlights cutting through the drizzle. Outside, the city was its usual, maddening self—horns blaring, buses hissing, the endless roar of a capital too proud to sleep. London clung to its ancient glory like a dowager duchess to her jewels, refusing to be irrelevant.

Inside the car, there was no such noise. Only silence—thick, expensive, deliberate. The kind that turned thoughts louder, heavier. The chauffeur's constipated breathing was the only sound, shallow and irritating in the stillness.

Thomas Cabot sat motionless, a picture of casual elegance, one long leg crossed over the other, chin resting on his hand. His reflection in the window stared back at him, pale and aristocratic against the blur of the city's lights.

The phone buzzed, a small, sharp sound that broke the car's spell.

"It was a wonderful weekend, Mr. Cabot. See you at work. – Miss West"

Thomas's mouth curved—not in a smile, but something darker. He keyed in the impossible password he sometimes forgot, deleted the message, and let the phone drop onto the leather seat beside him.

Denis West. He could conjure her easily—eyeliner sharp enough to cut, hair wild, mouth loud and red. She wore skirts that whispered sin and heels that dared the world to stop her. She laughed like a woman who had never been told "no."

She was trouble. The kind of trouble that made him feel alive.

He let his head fall back against the seat, eyes half-closed, and for a moment he was somewhere else.

Another face, another presence.

His wife.

Perfect, polished wife, the girl next door who had grown up into the woman everyone adored.

They had been inseparable once, back when life was simpler—back when she was just the girl in the neighboring estate and he was the boy who used to throw rocks at her window at midnight. Their mothers had arranged playdates before they could talk, their fathers had toasted to future engagements before they were ten. They had grown up together, summers spent racing through fields, winters pressed close before the fire, knowing each other's secrets before they even had words for them.

They had kissed for the first time in the rose garden when they were seventeen, married not long after university, because it had never occurred to either of them not to.

She had always been there.

And now she was here—still here—keeping house like some perfect storybook wife. The woman who had chosen this life, not because he asked her to, but because she wanted to create something warm for him, to give him a place to come home to.

And she was perfect.

Too perfect.

And that was the problem.

Perfection, Thomas had learned, was heavy. It pressed down on a man, suffocated him. Her devotion, her quiet constancy, the way she never raised her voice when he was late, never questioned, never broke—it was too much.

So he strayed.

He didn't hate himself for it. Not really. He told himself that even this was part of loving her. That if he didn't find release elsewhere, he would come to resent her, resent the life they had built together. This way, he could still come home to her, still hold her at night without bitterness festering beneath his ribs.

It was selfish, yes. But marriage was always a little selfish, wasn't it?

"Stop at the florist," he said suddenly, voice quiet but decisive. "The largest bouquet of roses they have."

The chauffeur nodded without question. Cabots were not questioned.

By the time they reached the Mayfair estate, twilight had deepened into full dark, the house standing like a silent witness against the sky. The windows glowed faintly, like watchful eyes.

Inside, warmth struck him like a physical thing. The air was rich with butter and sugar, some golden confection baking in the oven. His wife must be in the kitchen.

He adjusted himself by instinct—tie, cufflinks, collar. No perfume clung to him. No lipstick smeared across his skin. Immaculate.

She never needed to know.

What good would it do to tell her? Hurt her for the sake of his conscience? No—he would keep her happy, keep her believing in the picture-perfect life they had built together. That was the deal, wasn't it? She gave him her faith, and he gave her the illusion she wanted.

The roses felt heavy in his grip. In the other hand, the velvet box gleamed. Inside, a necklace of diamonds lay waiting—his penance, his confession she would never hear.

His footsteps echoed through the marble hall, past portraits of their entire shared history: muddy children on ponies, two teenagers grinning awkwardly at a Christmas dance, a wedding day where she looked radiant and he looked almost honest. All of it watched him pass, silent and knowing.

He paused outside the kitchen, inhaled slowly, and stepped in.

She was there, sleeves rolled, hair pinned back carelessly, hands dusted with flour. She looked up and smiled, the same smile that had unraveled him at twelve and claimed him completely by seventeen.

Thomas's chest tightened—but not with remorse. Something more complicated, darker.

She deserved better, yes. But she had chosen him. And this was who he was.

So he smiled, practiced and devastating, raising the roses like an offering and the velvet box like a promise.

"Hello, love," he said softly, his voice warm, easy, the way it had been every day since they were children. "I'm home."