The first time Adrian Vale told his wife he was going to therapy, Claire packed him dinner.

On Thursday evening at 5:45 p.m., the rain returned to Chicago, heavy and dark, driving sheets of water against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Vale estate.

In the kitchen, Claire was preparing the apples.

Thin, precise slices. Almond butter spread evenly across white bread. Wax paper folded with immaculate, sharp corners.

Adrian walked into the room at 6:00 p.m., his charcoal coat draped over his arm.

"You look tired, Claire," he said, stepping close to her. "You should be resting, not standing in the kitchen."

"I like keeping my hands busy," Claire replied smoothly, sliding the wrapped sandwiches into his leather briefcase. "It keeps my mind off the weight."

Adrian smiled, leaning down to kiss her cheek. His skin was warm, smelling of rain and fresh linen. "I spoke with Dr. Mercer yesterday on the phone. She thinks after the baby arrives, we should do a few joint sessions."

Claire paused, looking up at him. "Joint sessions?"

"Yes," Adrian said smoothly, taking his briefcase from the counter. "She thinks it would help us navigate the shift in our dynamic once the child is here. Help us build better boundaries against my family's history."

"That's very thoughtful of her," Claire said. "She seems very invested in our family’s future."

"She’s a professional," Adrian said, checking his silver wristwatch. "I should go. Traffic along the lakefront is terrible tonight."

"Adrian?" Claire called softly as he reached the doorway.

He stopped and turned. "Yes?"

"Do you feel like you're making progress? Truly?"

Adrian looked at her, his pale grey eyes filled with that quiet, masterfully crafted sincerity that had captivated her twelve years ago.

"Every week, Claire," he said softly. "I feel like I'm becoming the man you deserve."

"Good," Claire said with a serene smile. "Drive safely."

The moment his armored Suburban cleared the iron gates of the estate, Claire turned to the kitchen island. She picked up her heavy winter coat, her leather handbag, and a small, encrypted flash drive containing the complete financial audit of Mercer Commercial Asset Management.

Behind her, the kitchen door opened.

Marco, her personal driver—a man whose salary had been paid directly by the Whitmore estate for fifteen years—stood in the hallway holding a large black umbrella.

"The car is ready, Mrs. Vale," Marco said quietly.

"Is the secondary team in position on Michigan Avenue?" Claire asked, slipping her arms into her coat.

"Yes, ma'am. They’ve disabled the private elevator lock on Floor 14. You have full access."