The office was quiet enough that the hum of the air conditioner sounded like a neighbor’s sigh. Annabelle Murray sat at her desk under the oval glow of a desk lamp, the Daniels Group logo glowing faintly on her laptop. She had promised herself she’d answer one last set of emails before bed—project updates, an invoice dispute, a calendar invite she’d meant to send Remy two days ago—but her eyelids kept making excuses. Her phone buzzed on the blotter. A single light pulsed. Midnight. She glanced at the screen. Angela Sinclair. Annabelle knew Angela’s number. Everyone in Azure Harbor did. Angela’s name was an account: charity gala seat, sunset selfies from private yachts, invitations you didn’t send RSVP for and still expected a gift. Annabelle stared at the glowing letters like a dare. She should have let it go to voicemail. Her engagement ring—thin, practical—caught the lamp and flashed. She thought of Remy asleep in their one-bedroom on South Wharf, the steady rise and fall of his breathing. She thumbed the green button. “Annabelle,” Angela said, as if she’d been invited to break into a mansion, not to wake a woman at midnight. Her voice sounded unruffled, lacquered in the kind of calm money buys. “Angie?” Annabelle kept her voice low. “Is everything—” “Caught,” Angela cut in, breezy. “In the worst way. You know how men are. So dramatic.” Annabelle froze. “Caught?” “Yeah. Caught.” Angela’s laugh was