The wine has left me with a splitting headache, but not drunk enough to miss the cruel irony in Chloe's words from last night. *Go to England and beg.* As if I haven't already lost enough dignity.
I lie still on the couch, listening to the sounds of morning routine upstairs. Shower running. Hair dryer. The familiar rhythm of my wife preparing for another day of pretending our marriage isn't falling apart.
My phone buzzes against my chest. Another message from my mysterious contact: "Vincent expects you to break today. Don't give him the satisfaction."
Easy for them to say. They're not facing prison time for crimes they didn't commit.
Footsteps on the stairs. Chloe appears in the doorway, dressed for work, her expression carefully neutral.
"How are you feeling?" she asks.
"Like I've been hit by a truck full of embezzlement charges."
She doesn't smile at my attempt at humor. "Noah, we need to talk."
