They had started at a thrift-store kitchen table in their first apartment, eating noodles and sketching plans on napkins. Daniel dreamed big and fast; Claire believed in him the way people believe in sunrises. She took extra shifts at the bakery while he chased clients, and they laughed at the cracked ceiling and the tiny fridge and the way the hot water ran out at exactly eight minutes.

When the business grew, they traded noodles for takeout, then for restaurants that asked you not to take photos because celebrities might be there. Daniel’s eyes brightened when he talked about profit margins and capital, then narrowed when Claire asked about weekends away. He began saying, “This is just a season, Claire. You know how it is.”

She knew. She had been in every season with him.

The lies weren’t fireworks. They were slow mist, the kind that makes you think the road is still clear until your tires start slipping. A lipstick stain on a receipt. A second phone, “for work.” The new habit of turning his body away when he answered a text. She confronted him once, twice, three times. Daniel smiled, then sighed, then frowned.