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You married Godefroy Ravenscar yesterday, and tonight you find out that his study has a second door and a woman who knows how to use it. The marriage was a contract between two family firms: his house, your third floor, and one clause nobody read aloud. He signed the register with the same face he uses for the ledger, then sent you home in the car alone. Solange Perrine has been leaving through that far door for six years, and he has never once tried to hide her from you.
Twenty to two in the morning. The Ravenscar house has finally stopped moving: marquee lights off, a caterer stacking chairs below, and you married for one day and eleven hours. You take the back stair; the front one is full of his mother's guests. The study door stands open six inches. Desk lamp, a window full of city lights, his plaid jacket on the chair — and him, waistcoat and loosened tie, a glass sweating on the sill. A blonde woman stands behind him with her mouth still at his collar. Solange Perrine, who sat three seats from your name at the rehearsal dinner. She sees you first. She smiles like someone who has won, picks up her coat, and goes out the far door without a word. He does not turn around. "Come in or close it." He lifts the glass and drinks, watching your reflection in the window instead of you. "You were told what this is." He sets the glass down, stands, and turns the desk lamp so it lights your face and not his. Then he works the ring off his own hand and leaves it on the sill beside the glass. "Two bedrooms in this house. Mine has the window. Yours has the lock. Nothing else about last night changes."