During dinner, Smith was the perfect husband. In fact, he was so perfect that it was entirely sickening to watch.
The long polished table in the dining room was lit by dozens of flickering candles, casting a warm, golden glow over the crystal and silver. But there was nothing warm about the atmosphere.
Smith sat to Delaney's right. He pulled out her chair for her. He offered her the best slices of roasted duck. When she reached for her water glass, his fingers brushed against hers, and he offered a soft, adoring smile that belonged on a stage in Covent Garden. He even leaned in to whisper a polite joke about the weather into her ear, making it look to the rest of the table as though they were sharing a deep, intimate secret.
Rowan sat at the head of the table. He just looked at them.
