Henry didn’t return until the next morning.

His eyes swept over the room—no lavish breakfast on the table, no freshly pressed suit hanging by the door—and he frowned slightly.

“Did you get in late last night?”

I nodded. “I had some things to discuss with the lawyer.”

I pulled a document from my bag. “Two copies. Sign here.”

Without even glancing at it, Henry flipped to the last page and signed.

After all, for the past ten years of his career—and the seven years of our marriage—I had personally handled all his business and logistics operations.

I exhaled in relief, tucked the agreement into my bag, and prepared to leave.

But Henry blocked the doorway, his face dark as he grabbed my arm.

“Don’t overthink it,” he said.

“After dinner last night, Tamara broke out in hives. I just took her to the hospital. Nothing else happened.”

It was the first time in our marriage that Henry had ever offered me an explanation.

But he had forgotten, I, too, had once suffered from hives.