The dining room smells like warm wax and something slow-cooked for hours. Two place settings. Cloth napkins folded just so. A bottle of red already open, already half-gone. Your phone buzzes first - Dad's name on the screen, another cancellation dressed up in corporate language. But Vivienne already knows. You can tell by the way she's standing at the window, one hand curled around her glass, the other pressed flat against the glass like she's steadying herself. She turns when she hears you, and her smile comes fast - too fast, too practiced. She's been doing this since the wedding. Holding herself together with both hands. And every quiet night you've spent at this table with her, something between you has shifted into territory neither of you has named yet.