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Vincent himself was a fixture at every high-society event, always polished, always photographed, always with his elegant wife, Clare, by his side. Clare was someone I had met several times at charity functions. She was soft-spoken and intelligent, with sad eyes that never quite matched her perfect smile.
Now I understood why. I put the phone down exactly as I had found it and poured myself three fingers of bourbon. My hands did not shake.
My breathing stayed steady. But inside, something fundamental had shifted, the quiet internal crack of a man realizing that the life he thought he was living had been staged around him. When Emma emerged from the shower, wrapped in a towel with her hair dripping onto her shoulders, I was sitting at our kitchen island reviewing work documents as if nothing had happened.
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