As an architect, I have spent my entire adult life studying stress points. I know exactly how much weight a beam can hold before it snaps, how a hairline fracture in a foundation, if left unchecked, will eventually bring down a skyscraper. People, I’ve learned, are no different. They have load-bearing walls—lies, egos, secrets—and if you tap them at the right angle, with just enough pressure, the whole structure collapses.
I stood on the marble terrace of my estate, watching the sun dip below the horizon, casting long, bruised shadows across the manicured lawn. The air smelled of expensive lilies and imported champagne, a cloyingly sweet mixture that made bile rise in my throat. For the past five months, this scent had become the smell of deceit.
