Three weeks earlier, they were meeting a client couple, the Flynns, at the seasonal Nobu pop-up restaurant at the St. Regis. This would have been their biggest sale in more than a year, an eight-million-dollar chalet near Buttermilk. Claudine had brought the papers and planned for them to sign during dessert. Henry didn’t make it that far. Just as they arrived at the restaurant, as he held the door open for Claudine, she told him the Lions had called and asked her to take the Montague House listing—and she had accepted. So casual. Just like that. Like it was no big deal. The moment she said the words, his chest tightened. He barely heard the conversation through the appetizers. All he could do was try to process what she’d told him.

Why was she doing this? Hadn’t he done everything she asked? His designs were always getting better, keeping up with the latest technology, staying on the cutting edge of eco-friendly architecture that didn’t mar the beauty of the homes. Claudine sold him as a passionate, hands-on designer, one who built his houses side by side with the Alpine brothers. This was what set Calhoun + Calhoun apart from other Aspen realty firms. The clients loved how much Henry cared about his work. Loved meeting him and getting to socialize with such an accomplished architect. He hated it. Despised small talk. Hated schmoozing. The way Claudine paraded him around. Having to sit through god-awful dinners like this one with the Flynns. But had he ever complained? Had he ever refused her? In their personal lives as well as in work, never. Claudine didn’t want kids and she definitely didn’t want pets. Fine. So be it. He loved her. Didn’t she love him? If she did, how could she bring Montague House back into their lives? He knew business was hurting, but unearthing their past, and in such a public way, threatened everything, especially the delicate psychic edifice they had spent years constructing.

That was their most impressive structure. The lie. It was more complex and intricate than any home he had ever designed. Now Claudine was about to risk burning it down, setting it ablaze and incinerating them with it.

He couldn’t breathe. His left arm had started to tingle. The waiter set down their entrées, and the last thing he remembered was thinking Claudine’s eyelashes looked exceptionally long, her lids closing as she blinked.

“Henry?” Her voice was behind a veil.

Then blackness.