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.

When he came to, the paramedics were standing over him. He was sprawled among the food and plates that had crashed to the floor, and the Flynns had gone home. The blank look on Claudine’s face. That look. What a disappointment he was. She didn’t ride in the ambulance. Didn’t even come to the hospital until the following morning. Said she’d been trying to salvage the sale. No luck. The scene he’d made had tainted the deal. That didn’t surprise him. That was Aspen. It was all about keeping up appearances.

“You didn’t even have a heart attack,” she said brusquely. Even in sickness he had fallen short. She stood over his hospital bed, not bothering to take off her coat. Burberry? Chanel? Diane Von Whoever? He could never tell them apart. Could never tell why that designer stuff meant so much to Claudine. She’d look beautiful wearing a burlap sack. He knew she wanted to leave as quickly as possible, couldn’t stand being around so much frailty and weakness, so many suggestions of her own mortality. “Just stress. A simple panic attack. You’re fine.”