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You're married to Burkett Whitbourne. Honora still thinks she comes first. Honora Brookhouse has known Winfield Burkett Whitbourne for fifteen years, from boarding school to Hollenden and everything after. Everyone else calls him Winn. Honora calls him Burkett. His parents adore her. She comes from the kind of family they call "good stock," a phrase Honora only laughs off with, "Well, at least no one's checked my teeth yet," which somehow makes his mother love her even more. You never have. After Honora's engagement implodes just after Valentine's Day, Burkett offers her somewhere to stay while she gets back on her feet. You find out when you come home from a romantic weekend in the Ossory Cays and see her wandering through the Harrowgate penthouse in his old Hollenden hoodie, bare-legged and completely at ease. At first, she's only supposed to stay a few days. A month later, she's still there. She asks him before she invites friends over. She asks him before ordering dinner after you've already cooked. And whenever you object, she looks genuinely confused, because in her mind it's his penthouse. You're just the wife who lives there. By the end of that month you want a separation. There's only one problem: your prenup makes leaving first brutally expensive. If you walk away without cause, you lose almost everything tied to the marriage. But if he cheats, the agreement changes completely.
The private elevator opens directly into the penthouse, and for the first time in three days, you almost wish it hadn't. Five minutes ago, Burkett had been standing behind you in the elevator with one hand settled at your waist, laughing about the sunburn he'd managed to catch in the Ossory Cays despite spending most of the weekend beneath an umbrella. Your suitcase still has a luggage tag from Port Ashline looped round the handle. His overnight bag is thrown over one shoulder. It had been a perfect Valentine's weekend. Then you hear a woman's voice from inside your home. "Burkett? Is that you?" You stop. Burkett stops behind you. There are two expensive-looking suitcases by the entry console. Neither belongs to you. Before you can ask, a woman turns the corner from the kitchen carrying one of your wineglasses. Bare legs. Platinum-blonde hair. And Burkett's old crimson Hollenden hoodie hanging halfway down her thighs. Honora Brookhouse. Of course. She smiles the instant she sees Burkett. Not you. "Finally." She crosses the room like she's been waiting for him to come home to her. "I was starting to think you two had decided to stay another night." Burkett's expression changes. Just slightly. Enough. You turn your head toward him. "Burkett?" Honora says his middle name with the easy familiarity of someone who's been doing it since boarding school. Everyone else calls Winfield Burkett Whitbourne ‘Winn.’ Honora has called him Burkett for fifteen years. Burkett exhales through his nose. "Okay. Before you get mad—" Your stomach drops. Honora looks between the two of you and gives a small laugh. "Oh, he didn't tell you." She says it lightly. Almost fondly. Burkett puts his bag down. "Honora's engagement ended Friday." "Thursday," Honora corrects him, taking another sip of wine. "Technically." Burkett glances at her. "Right. Thursday." Honora gives him a quick smile. Something old passes between them. Then Burkett looks back at you. "She needed somewhere to stay." You stare at the luggage. Then at the hoodie. Then at your husband. "So you gave her a key?" Honora answers before Burkett can. "Burkett told the doorman to let me up." Burkett rubs the back of his neck. "I was going to tell you." "When?" Honora leans one hip against the kitchen island. The penthouse kitchen island. Your kitchen island. "Please don't be upset with him," she says, as if you're already being unreasonable. "I called him crying. I didn't really give him much warning." You look at her. She smiles. Warm. Polite. Perfectly composed. Burkett's parents have adored Honora. His mother once called her ‘good stock’ over Christmas dinner, which apparently wasn't horrifying enough for anyone else at that table. Honora had only laughed and said, "At least buy me dinner before you check my teeth, Mrs. Whitbourne." Burkett's father nearly choked on his scotch laughing. His mother loved her even more after that. Honora sets the wineglass down. "I can vanish into the guest room. Seriously. You won't even know I'm here." Your gaze drops to the HOLLENDEN lettering across her chest. Burkett wore that hoodie in half his college photographs. You haven't seen it once in your entire marriage. Honora notices where you're looking. Her smile widens. "This old thing?" She pulls lightly at the hem. “Burkett gave it to me sophomore year. I can't believe it still fits." Burkett actually laughs. "Jesus. You still have that?" "Obviously." She looks at him like the answer should have been obvious. Then she looks back at you. "I hope you don't mind. Burkett said I should make myself at home." Burkett steps closer to you. "It's temporary." Honora picks up her wine again. "Very temporary." A beat. Then, as if remembering something completely ordinary: "Oh, Burkett, I'm having a few people over tonight." Burkett blinks. "Tonight?" "Just Cornelia, Bixby, Eustace, maybe two others. I can't sit around thinking about Sinjin all night." Your head turns slowly toward her. Honora notices. "What?" "You invited people here?" She looks genuinely confused by the question. Then she glances at Burkett. "Is that a problem?" Not at you. At Burkett. Your husband hesitates. Honora's expression softens immediately. "Burkett, please. I really don't want to be alone tonight." There it is. Burkett looks at you. And somehow, impossibly, you already know which one of you is going to be asked to compromise. That was the first night. Honora’s friends came over, six of them instead of the five she had mentioned. Someone opened the champagne Burkett had been saving, someone else put music on loud enough that you could hear it from the bedroom, and Honora spent most of the evening curled into the corner of your sectional while Burkett sat beside her telling old boarding-school stories. She cried twice, laughed three times, and somehow managed to make every moment of your irritation look cruel. Whenever you seemed annoyed, Honora noticed immediately and became sweeter. "Are we being too loud? Do you want us to leave?" Then, before you could answer, she would glance at Burkett with a wounded little smile. "Oh God, I knew this was a bad idea. Burkett, I told you she'd be uncomfortable." Burkett spent the night reassuring her. You spent the night looking unreasonable. That was Day One. A month later, Honora is still here. Her suitcases disappeared sometime during the second week, not because she left, but because she unpacked. There are platinum-blonde hairs in Burkett's bathroom sink now. Her skincare has colonized half the guest bath and somehow migrated into yours. Three pairs of heels live beside the front door, her dry cleaning comes upstairs with yours, the staff know her coffee order, and the doorman recognizes her friends. Somewhere along the way, "a few days" became "until I figure things out," and you've heard that sentence so many times you could scream. Tonight, you are standing in the kitchen looking at a dinner you spent nearly two hours making when Burkett walks in. Honora follows him a moment later wearing Burkett's old crimson Hollenden hoodie again, as if it has become part of her permanent wardrobe. She drops her handbag on the counter and looks at him. "Burkett, can we order Thai? I really don't feel like homemade food tonight." You stop moving. Burkett looks at the stove, then at you, and only then does Honora follow his gaze and seem to notice the dinner. "Oh." She pauses for half a second, then gives you a small apologetic smile. "You should absolutely eat it, though." Burkett rubs his jaw. "Honora." "What?" She looks at him rather than you. "I'm not insulting her cooking." "You just walked in and asked to order food after she made dinner." Honora's brows lift. "I didn't know she was cooking." "You watched me prep it an hour ago." She finally turns to you, still calm, still pleasant. "I saw you in the kitchen. I didn't realize that meant everyone was required to eat." Your grip tightens on the serving spoon. Burkett says your name quietly, using that tone that means don't start, and Honora hears it too. "Burkett, seriously, if this is going to cause a whole thing, forget it. I'll eat." You stare at her. Honora sighs like this is exhausting for her. "I'm trying here." "Trying?" "Yes. I stay out of your way, I sleep in the guest room, and I barely use anything." Your gaze flicks to the wine rack. Three bottles are missing. Honora continues, "I ask Burkett before I do anything." "That's the problem." She blinks. "What is?" "You ask Burkett." Honora stares at you as if you've said something completely irrational, then gives one short, incredulous laugh. "He invited me here." "This is my home too." "I never said it wasn't." "You act like I need his permission to have an opinion about what happens here." Honora's expression shifts. Just slightly. Now she looks hurt. "Wow." Burkett exhales. "Honora—" "No, it's fine." She lifts one hand. "I get it." You already hate what comes next. She turns to Burkett. "Your wife doesn't want me here." There it is. Burkett looks at you, and you stare back at him. "Honora, I've asked you repeatedly to stop phrasing things like that." "Like what?" "Like he's the only person who decides what happens in this house." Honora looks genuinely confused. Then she glances around the penthouse. "Burkett owns it." Silence settles over the kitchen. Burkett's head turns toward her. "Honora." "What? He does." You feel something inside you snap, and Honora notices your expression immediately. "Oh my God. That came out wrong." "Did it?" "Yes." She looks at Burkett again. "I mean legally, because of the family trust. I wasn't saying she doesn't live here." Your whole body goes still. Burkett does too, and Honora realizes a second too late that she has said far too much. You look at your husband. "How does she know that?" "Burkett told me." Burkett closes his eyes for half a second. You laugh, but it doesn't sound like you. "Of course he did." Honora's mouth tightens. "You're making this into something it isn't." "You know the ownership structure of my home." "Because Burkett and I talk." "About my prenup?" Her eyes flick to Burkett. That is answer enough. Burkett steps closer. "Nothing detailed." "He was venting," Honora adds quickly. Your head turns. "About what?" Neither of them answers immediately. Burkett looks between you and Honora, jaw tight, then finally says, "Enough." His voice is controlled but firm. He steps closer to you first. "She shouldn't know that much. I'll handle it." For one brief, beautiful second, relief hits you. "Honora—" "No." Burkett cuts her off. "You crossed a line." Honora's face changes immediately. She looks down at the floor, her voice going small. "Do you want me to leave?" Burkett turns toward her. You answer before he can. "Yes." Silence. Honora looks at Burkett. Not you. Burkett exhales. "Honora, don't listen to her." Your stomach drops. He looks back at you. "She's upset." "No. I'm not." "You are." "I want her out." Burkett's expression hardens. "She has nowhere to go." "That is not my problem." Honora looks wounded. "Burkett, it's fine. I'll get a hotel." "No, you won't." He says it instantly. Too instantly. Honora looks at him. You do too. Burkett rubs a hand over his face. "This is exactly what I'm talking about. Everyone is emotional, nobody is thinking straight, and I'm not throwing my best friend out onto the street in the middle of the night because we had one bad dinner." "One bad dinner?" Burkett lowers his voice. "We are not doing this right now." Honora reaches for her handbag. "I should go." Burkett catches her lightly by the wrist. "No." She looks down at his hand, then up at him, then over at you. For one uncomfortable second, the room shifts again. Somehow, in your own home, you are the outsider. Burkett lets go of her wrist. "Nobody is leaving tonight." Honora gives you one last apologetic look, the kind that somehow makes you feel like the cruel one again. "See? This is why I keep saying you don't want me here." Burkett closes his eyes. You stare at both of them. Honora's voice softens. "Burkett... do you really want me to stay?" He looks at her. And now you have to decide whether you want to hear his answer.