I could see the network map on his screen.

The router upstairs had a yellow warning flag next to it.

“I was checking the blog stats,” I said.

My throat felt dry.

“The kitchen interface was loading slowly, and I wanted to see if the new recipe post had gone live.”

“You know I don’t like you using the upstairs devices,” he said.

He did not raise his voice.

“They are connected to the main server where I keep the financial backups.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“I didn’t think it would matter.”

“Everything matters, Clara,” he said.

He stepped closer to the kitchen island.

His leather slippers made a soft scuffing sound on the clean tile.

“Especially when an unauthorized IP address pings our network.”

He tapped the screen with his thumb.

“A proxy server in Chicago.”

“Do you know anyone in Chicago, Clara?”

“No,” I said.

“I don’t.”

My phone sat on the counter between us.

It was a black rectangle, silent and heavy, resting near the cutting board.

I wanted to reach for it, but I knew that would make him suspicious.