The Ballroom. God, still here. It’s too much. The light. Those huge, ridiculous chandeliers. They don't make anything beautiful, they just make everything look sharp. Too sharp. Too clear. And the noise. That awful, high-pitched hum of people saying important, utterly meaningless things. I hate it. I really, really hate it.

I'm in the silk dress. The emerald one. It’s supposed to be chic. Powerful. But it feels like a heavy blanket. Suffocating. I keep trying to breathe deep. I have to smile. Keep smiling. That fixed, terrible, diplomatic wife smile. My jaw is aching. It actually aches. I’m nodding at Mrs. Albright—something about her absurd prize-winning rose bushes. Who cares? Honestly, who cares about roses right now?

I can't stop looking at Julian. He’s over by the European contingent. Always the center. Talking to Schmidt. The German. Julian is on. Full charm. The perfect posture. The slight, thoughtful tilt of his head when he’s explaining something complex. He looks so... solid. Like he's carved from expensive, cold marble. That was the Julian I married. Unshakeable.

But the marble is cold. That's the problem now. Too cold.

When did it start? I keep running the timeline. Three months? Six? The distance crept in. It didn’t crash in. It was slow. Like a quiet, steady drain. The phone calls. Always outside. Always whispered. He says, “State security, Clara. Highly sensitive files.” But his voice... his voice is flat. Dead. He avoids my eyes when he says it. He avoids my eyes completely now.

I took a fast sip of the champagne. It’s warm. Disgusting. I need to focus. I have to stop thinking about the past. Focus on now. Because now, my gut is screaming. Just screaming: Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

And then he moved. He just—he broke away from Schmidt. Sharp nod. No lingering goodbye. And he walked. But not to the bar. Not to the restroom. He went to the edge of the room. The coat check. The service door. That's so un-Julian. He never, ever goes near the service areas. Never. Too common.

And then I saw him. The other man.

Just waiting there. Lurking. Near the velvet ropes. Boxy suit. Cheap material. Not one of ours. Definitely not diplomatic. He looked like... a cleaner. An enforcer. A shadow made physical. Waiting. Waiting.

Julian walked up. And the fear. Oh, God. The fear that hit Julian's face. It was instantaneous. Pure, raw panic. I’ve never seen that look on him. Never. He was terrified. I almost dropped the glass. I gasped. I think I gasped.

The Shadow Man didn't speak. Just reached into his jacket. Inner pocket. And pulled out an envelope. Grey. Thick. Heavy. Not a letter. A package. Something else.

The transfer. Too fast. Too practiced. Too clean. Envelope to Julian. Julian’s hand clamped down on it. Crushing the paper. And he shoved it. He literally shoved it deep into his tuxedo pocket. Right over his chest. Right over the secret.

And the man was gone. Just melted back into the dark corner. Vanished.

Julian stood there. Still. Breathing too quickly. Too shallow. And then—the switch. He adjusted his tie. He fixed his cufflink. Click. The mask is back on. He's The Diplomat again. But I saw it. I saw the terror. That wasn't state business. That was something terrible. Something black market. And it happened right here. In front of all this ridiculous light. I need to get out of this dress. I need to know. I have to.

I put the glass down immediately. My hand was shaking too much. I pretended to study the awful metal sculpture. Focusing on the ugly bends. Trying to look absorbed. I had to brace myself. He was coming. He was coming straight for me. I had to put my own mask on. Mrs. Julian Vance. Perfect.

He reached me. And the touch. That cold arm around my waist. Tight. Too tight. It’s a lock. Not affection. It's ownership. A warning: She is mine. She is controlled. Everything is fine. I hated the feel of his fingers through the silk. So cold.

“Clara. There you are. You look… flawless, darling.”

Flawless. He speaks to me like I’m a high-tech appliance. That’s what I am now.

I tried to look concerned. “Julian. A busy night. You seem a little strained, darling. Is everything all right with the trade commission?” I was trying to find his eyes. Trying to find the old Julian.

Nothing. His eyes were like grey stones. They darted constantly. Scanning. Checking the door again. Scanning the crowd. Looking for the Shadow Man, maybe? Or waiting for the next signal. He was completely, utterly distracted. By the fear.

“Sensitive, Clara. Very sensitive issues. Nothing you need to concern yourself with, my dear.”

Nothing for me. Nothing. He wanted me out. Gone. Invisible. So he could deal with the heavy, grey secret that was bulging against his chest. He squeezed my waist again. Hard. It was definitely a warning this time. Go. Now.

I had to check the smell. I moved my hand up, pretending to fix his tie knot. That intimate gesture. I got right up close. Close enough to inhale. And yes. There it was. Under the expensive cologne. That faint, metallic, sour scent. Fear. Adrenaline. Pure, unadulterated panic. And he didn’t even flinch. Didn’t pull back. Nothing. He’s completely gone. Detached. Already in his secret world.

“Of course, darling,” I whispered. The lie was easy. Too easy. My voice was steady. I hate how well I can lie now.

He didn't wait. One last, cold squeeze—go, disappear—and he walked off. Fast. Too fast. His hand immediately went to his pocket. Touching the paper. Checking the secret. That’s his priority. That's his real focus. Not me. Never me.

I stood there. Alone. Even with the room full of people. I felt totally, horribly alone. The string quartet. The chatter. It was all meaningless. Background noise to the massive, horrifying lie. And the thought hit me. That massive, life-changing thought: I can’t ignore this. I can’t. If I smile and nod, I’m helping him. I’m an accomplice. I’m protecting his secret. I am becoming complicit in whatever terrible thing he’s doing.

No. No, no, no. I won't. I won't be that beautiful, elegant, passive wife. Not me. I am not his accessory.

I went to the huge, ridiculous embassy windows. The reflection. Me. Beautiful. Expensive. Empty. Julian drained the life out. But now—now I feel cold, sharp, and intensely awake. I am awake. And I need to know the truth. I have to. I have to. I have to. The old life is dead.

The rest of the night was torture. A slow-motion, sparkling torture. I kept talking to Albright. Abstract art. The stupid, stupid roses. But my brain was running. A horrible, silent computer. Making lists. Julian’s routines. The best time to approach the study. The security camera blind spots—I noticed those when the decorator was here. I did. He thought I was worried about the curtains. Idiot. I was watching everything.

He was still tense. More tense as the night went on. Checking his watch every three minutes. Only water. No more drinking. He was waiting for the party to end. Waiting for the solitude.

Finally. Finally, it ended. The last goodbyes. The relief when that huge front door closed. The sudden silence. It was absolutely deafening.

The drive home. Awful. Worse than the party. Silent. Completely silent. Not one word. He just stared straight ahead. Rigid. Stiff. The grey envelope—still there. Like a lump. A terrifying, grey lump in his chest.

We got to the residence. The gates closed. Click. Trap. We're home. We’re in the trap.

He was out of the car first. Didn't wait. Didn't even look back. Just stormed inside. He pulled off his tuxedo jacket. Carefully, though. Too carefully. And just dropped it on the hall chair. Abandoned it there. Like a piece of incriminating evidence.

And then he was gone. Upstairs. To his study.

I stood in the massive, echoing hall. Alone. The maid was closing up. Silence. And then—the sound. I held my breath.

The quiet thud of the study door closing.

And then: Click.

The lock. The lock turning. The final, awful, metallic click. The bolt sliding home. The lock he has never used. Not once. It was always open. Always. Transparency. Lies.

That’s it. That’s the end. The final, definitive end. The marriage died in that sound. That small, final, terrifying sound.

I didn't cry. I thought I would. I thought I would be weeping. But I just felt this huge, cold knot of resolve. I’m not crying. I’m planning. He’s in there. With the fear. With the envelope. And I am out here. But I’m coming in.

I walked up the sweeping staircase. Slowly. Deliberately. I need to get out of this ridiculous silk. I need coffee. And I need to find the lock-picking set. The one I bought years ago, for the stupid team-building exercise. Where did I put it? In the attic? I have to find it. I have to get through that door.

The obedient wife is gone. Dead. She died with that click. Now it’s just Clara. The spy. The investigator. The one who is going to break this beautiful, horrible cage apart. I have to be the one who wins. I have to. I have to. Now. Now. I start now.

I ascended the sweeping flight of stairs. Slowly. Deliberately. I need to get out of this fantastic silk. I need coffee. And I will have to pass the lock-picking set. The one that I bought several years back, due to the stupid Prague team-building exercise. Where did I put it? In the attic? I have to find it. I must get out that door.

The dutiful wife is gone. Dead. She died with that click. Now it’s just Clara. The spy. The investigator. The beautiful horror cage will be put under the one who will put it under. I have to be the one who wins. I have to. I have to. Now. Now. I start now.

This is it. This is the pivot. The turning point. I was in the forefront of the stairs and the point is that I was not afraid any more. Not really. Just cold. Cold and so pissed off. It is surely the more antagonistic fuel. Even worse than that gagging terror. I won’t just stand by. I won’t. I do not mind that emerald dress is going to rot in the closet. I do need clothes that I would move around with. Jeans. That couple of smelly ragged out hoodie Julian hates