[Adrian’s POV]

The symposium is held in a hotel conference center in midtown Manhattan—all beige carpeting and fluorescent lighting and the particular smell of academic gatherings everywhere: stale coffee and ambition.

I arrive early, giving myself time to settle into the environment before Lisette makes her inevitable appearance. The conference room hums with the quiet energy of intellectuals preparing to perform. My heart pounds with a mixture of anticipation and dread, but I force myself to breathe evenly, to project the confidence Cleo coached me on. Happy. Successful. Unbothered.

The weight of what I’m attempting presses against my chest with every breath. This isn’t just a conference—it’s a battlefield, and I’m walking into enemy territory armed with nothing but composure and the desperate hope that Lisette will reveal herself.

I take notes, ask questions, engage with other attendees in ways that establish my legitimate presence. If anyone asks, I’m here representing the consulting firm, exploring potential collaboration opportunities. The familiar rhythm of academic discourse settles my nerves slightly, reminding me of a life I once loved, before it became poisoned by the woman I married.

I feel her before I see her.

It’s an awareness I developed during our marriage—a prickling at the back of my neck that signals Lisette’s proximity, a visceral response my body learned through years of navigating her moods. My pulse quickens, but I don’t turn around, don’t acknowledge the sensation. I simply continue my conversation with a policy researcher from Georgetown, discussing data methodologies with focused attention while every nerve ending screams at me to run.

She waits until the lunch break to approach, timing her appearance for maximum impact. Of course she does. Lisette has always understood the power of timing, the way a well-placed word can cut deeper than any blade. I’m standing near the coffee station, alone for the first time all morning, when her voice cuts through the ambient noise like a scalpel.

“Adrian. What a surprise to see you here.”

I turn slowly, keeping my expression neutral despite the adrenaline flooding my system. Her dark hair is swept back in an elegant chignon, her designer suit perfectly tailored, every detail calculated to project power and sophistication.

“Lisette. I didn’t realize you’d be attending.”

“Oh, I never miss these gatherings. Professional networking is so important, don’t you think? Especially for those of us working outside traditional academic structures.”

The dig is subtle but unmistakable—a reminder that I’m no longer part of the academic world she still navigates. I file it away, keeping my response calm despite the way my stomach churns.

“The consulting world has its own networks. Different, but equally valuable.”

“I’m sure it does.” She takes a step closer, her perfume reaching me with deliberate intensity—the same fragrance she wore during our marriage, chosen specifically to trigger memories I’ve spent years trying to bury. “How is your work going? I heard the firm you joined is quite… practical. Applied research rather than theoretical. That must be an adjustment.”

“It’s fulfilling. Different from what I imagined, but fulfilling.”

“And your personal life?” Her eyes sharpen with predatory interest, the mask slipping just enough to reveal the hunger beneath. “I understand there have been some changes in that department as well.”

My pulse quickens, but I keep my voice steady. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Oh, come now, Adrian. This is a small world. Word travels.” Her smile turns cruel, lips curving into something that resembles pleasure but feels like violence. “A woman. Two men. Very modern. Very unconventional. And now a baby on the way, I hear. How exciting for you.”

The mention of Sophie, of Maggie, sends ice through my veins. But I’ve prepared for this. Stay calm. Don’t engage emotionally. Let her expose herself.

“I’m happy,” I say simply. “For the first time in a long time, I’m genuinely happy.”

Something flickers in Lisette’s expression—anger, perhaps, or jealousy so raw it momentarily strips away her careful composure. The mask slips for just a moment before she regains control, but I’ve seen it. The wound beneath the armor.

“Happiness is such a fragile thing, isn’t it? So easily disrupted by… complications.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Of course not.” Her laugh is musical and utterly false, a sound I heard countless times during our marriage when she was pretending to be amused while plotting destruction. “I’m just making conversation. Catching up with an old friend.”

“We were never friends, Lisette. We were married, and then we weren’t, and the years since have made that distinction painfully clear.”

“Painful for whom?” She tilts her head, studying me like a specimen she’s preparing to dissect. “I’ve moved on quite nicely. Built a reputation, maintained my influence, continued to contribute to the scholarly community. Can you say the same?”

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