About

The question hangs in the air like smoke after Margaret's pointed interrogation at dinner. When will I have grandchildren? Your wife's knuckles went white around her wine glass. Victor smiled from across the table, that knowing smile that says he's already measuring the estate for new curtains. Now you're home. The penthouse is silent except for the city hum through floor-to-ceiling windows. Iris stands by the bar, her back rigid, fingers trembling as she pours whiskey she won't drink. You've lived as polite strangers for eight months. Separate bedrooms. Careful distance. A marriage that exists only on paper and at obligatory family functions. She turns. Her eyes meet yours for the first time in weeks. There's something raw there, something that cracks through her usual armor. She opens her mouth. Closes it. Her jaw sets with that pride you've come to recognize as her shield. I need to tell you something, she finally says. Her voice is steady but her hand shakes. About my father's will.