She counted them herself.

Two hundred and forty-three calls.

All between midnight and four in the morning.

None of them to her.

Rosalind Harlow dismantled her entire career to follow Vincent into his world.

The compound. The club. The life she chose with both eyes open.

She never suspected the woman with the binder.

She never suspected midnight could swallow a marriage whole.

Then Vincent went into surgery and surfaced from sedation terrified, confused, and calling for someone else.

Not once.

Twice.

Rosalind was standing close enough to touch him.

He never reached for her.

She pulled the phone records the week he came home.

She sat beside his healing body every day and said nothing.

And when she finally put her phone on the table between them and let him look, she did not raise her voice.

She just stood up.

And she was already pregnant when she walked out that door.

He did not know that part yet.