Adrian opened the door wearing an apron, looking for all the world like the perfect domestic husband. He took the suitcase from my hand as if nothing had happened.
"Mom, Dad, please. Come in. Sit."
My mother nudged me forward. "Adrian, you're not at work?"
The house was spotless. The aroma of slow-cooked soup drifted from the kitchen.
"I knew you might come by, Mom, so I took the day off." Adrian's smile was gentle, his eyes warm. "Fiona, get slippers for your parents."
The switch was seamless.
Terrifying.
"Mm," I mumbled.
At the dinner table, my parents sang his praises.
"Fiona has a bad temper." My father accepted a bowl of soup from Adrian. "Bear with her, son."
"Dad, Mom, Fiona is wonderful." Adrian placed a choice piece of meat in my bowl. "This was my fault. I didn't consider her feelings enough. It won't happen again."
He was doing it again. Covering everything with a veneer of perfection, making me look like the unreasonable, hysterical wife.
"Fiona."
Under the table, my mother's leg nudged mine. A silent command to apologize. To be *grateful*.
I looked at the three of them—a happy family tableau built on lies.
I set my chopsticks down with a sharp *clack*.
"Drop the act, Adrian."
I met his gaze without blinking.
"Aren't you exhausted?"
"Mom. Dad."
My hands trembled in my lap, but my voice stayed steady. "I am still getting this divorce. I only came back so you could witness it with your own eyes."
The smiles vanished from their faces.
"Fiona! How can you be so ungrateful?" my father snapped. "Adrian has—"
"Mom, Dad, please go home first." Adrian's calm voice cut through the tension. "There is a misunderstanding between Fiona and me. I need to explain it to her."
He ushered them out. Charming. Respectful. The perfect son-in-law until the elevator doors closed.
He turned.
He shut the door.
The lock clicked.
The warmth evaporated from the room.
"Fiona."
He reached for me. I slapped his hand away.
"You're making me very sad." The sigh that escaped him was patronizing, practiced. "Zoe has done a lot for you. What you said last night... it was cruel."
He stepped closer, his voice taking on that coaxing tone one uses with a toddler. "Alright. About the slap... that was my fault. I apologize."
Before I could react, he grabbed my hand and pressed it against his own cheek. Not hard. Just firm enough.
A performance.
"There. Hit me back. Don't be angry anymore, Fiona."