Rain drummed against the roofs of Seattle that night, turning every street into a ribbon of silver light. Grace Miller stood on her front porch, barefoot, holding her three-year-old son close. Behind her, the man she had called husband for ten years stood in the doorway — not with anger, not even pity, but with a cold indifference that froze her heart.
“Daniel,” she whispered, rain sliding down her face like tears. “Please… not in front of Noah.”
