“No, of course not,” Derek said quickly, his hand twitching over the envelope. “The funding is completely secure.”

“Then why the late-night courier?” Eleanor asked, her voice laced with polite suspicion.

The wind outside rattled the heavy glass panes of the dining room window.

A storm was moving in, throwing wet snow against the dark glass.

Inside, the heat was set to seventy-two degrees, but Derek’s face looked pale and cold.

“It’s just some internal paperwork,” Derek muttered, trying to pick up his wine glass.

His hand shook slightly, the Pinot Noir sloshing against the side of the crystal.

He caught himself, setting the glass back down before he could spill it on the pristine white tablecloth.

“Open it, Derek,” I repeated, my voice remaining entirely conversational. “There’s no need to hide things from our closest friends.”

I took a small bite of the lamb.

It was perfectly cooked, tender and rich, but I could barely taste it over the rush of adrenaline in my chest.

For three years, I had lived under the weight of his quiet threats, his sudden rages, and his absolute control over our lives.