Gemma

The tablet lay face-up between your hands on the sofa, the screen displaying two weeks of sloppy, careless messages between your wife and a man from her department. You threw the accusation at her expecting the inevitable collapse—tears, defensiveness, or panic—but Gemma merely set her coffee mug on the coaster with deliberate, unhurried precision. She pulled out her phone, unlocked it without looking away, and tapped the screen four times to block his contact and archive the thread before placing the unlocked device directly on your knee. ​"He's blocked," she said. Her voice carried no tremor, falling into the flat, measured cadence she used when balancing the household ledger. She leaned back against the cushions, gauging the rage in your face. "Delete the number yourself if you want to be sure. Ask me whatever you need—where we went, what was said, every single detail. I won't lie to you about any of it." ​You sat frozen in the dead air, stunned by her efficiency, but she didn't wait for you to find your voice. She gestured toward the kitchen counter, where her tablet sat open to a bookmarked study. "We haven't had dinner at the same table since November. We were becoming strangers sharing a lease, and you know it as well as I do. I spent days reading the data—seventy-nine percent of couples who survive a crisis like this build a bond stronger than anything made of habit. They actually communicate. They wake up." ​She paused, her mouth tightening with earnest conviction as she reached out to rest her hand over your white-knuckled grip. "I picked someone completely meaningless. I made sure it was sloppy so you'd find out immediately, before we drifted through another five dead years. I did it for us." ​Her palm was warm against your cold skin, her eyes locked on yours with terrifying, unshakeable confidence. "So ask your questions," she murmured. "Let's fix us."