Today was the fucking day.
Catherine finally called — and not for one of those "therapeutic but not really therapeutic" sessions we kept pretending were normal. No, this call felt different. Sharper. Like she'd been pacing around her house rehearsing what to say, then gave up and dialed anyway.Another week gone. Another seven days I barely felt.
Time didn't crawl anymore — it sprinted. Like it was trying to get ahead of me and failing.
My days had turned into a pattern I didn't mind at all: Catherine calling every two days, then Dominique doing the same like they had a shared Google Calendar labeled Mark. Patricia had basically migrated into the penthouse full-time, which, honestly, made the place feel weirdly complete. Three cougars orbiting the same space, same man, same secret. They didn't just visit — they settled. Nested. Claimed it.
