Gaslight

I reached past his shoulder, my fingers brushing the collar of his shirt as I picked up the empty travel mug. My pulse drummed a frantic rhythm against my throat.

"OakBrook_Nursery_5G," I read aloud, keeping my voice mild, almost bored. "That's a weird network to have saved."

Julian’s hand froze over the trackpad. The hesitation was microscopic, a fraction of a second, but it was there.

"Oh, that," he said, smoothly minimizing the network window. He turned in the chair, looking up at me with an indulgent smile. "That’s the model home setup. The one the hub was pulling from."

"A model home?" I traced the rim of the metal mug. "You said the hub was pulling a neighbor's feed. Why would your laptop connect to it automatically?"

"Because I set it up, Clara." He let out a short, exasperated laugh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "It's for the Peterson account. High-net-worth client. He wanted a fully integrated smart-nursery system tested before he moved in. I ran the diagnostic from my machine last month when I visited the site."

"The site in Oak Brook."

"Yes, Clara. The site in Oak Brook." His tone sharpened, a subtle reprimand for questioning him. "I told you, I was testing a system. The hub here must have remembered the network string and tried to auto-sync when I unpacked my bag."

He turned back to the screen, clicking open a CAD file. Complex wireframes and structural loads filled the display. It was a perfect deflection. He gave me a technical explanation that sounded plausible enough to satisfy a layman, backed by a visual prop.

"I didn't know you did residential tech integrations," I said, leaning against the back of his chair. "I thought you handled commercial lobbies."

Julian stopped typing. He didn't turn around this time. The air in the living room shifted, the ambient temperature dropping.

"I handle whatever pays the firm's overhead, Clara." His voice was low, devoid of the earlier charm. "Including the overhead that pays for this house. Do you need me to pull the invoices and explain my billing hours to you?"

The threat was implicit. Question my work, question your lifestyle. It was the weapon he used to end arguments before they started.

I forced a tight, apologetic smile. "No, of course not. Just curious. I'll let you work."

I walked toward the kitchen, the travel mug cold in my hand. He had an answer for everything. A perfectly constructed, impenetrable narrative. If I kept pushing directly, he wouldn't just deflect; he would begin hiding his tracks.

I set the mug in the sink and turned on the faucet. The rush of water drowned out the sound of his typing.

If he was testing a system for a high-net-worth client named Peterson, there would be a contract. There would be billing hours. There would be a paper trail.

I dried my hands, staring at the closed door of my office. He thought he had shut me down. He thought his logic was flawless. But Julian lived in the world of design and concept. I lived in the world of raw numbers.

And numbers, unlike husbands, never lied.

Julian’s voice drifted in from the living room, laced with a familiar, condescending edge.

"Are you tracking my routers now, Clara? You're starting to sound a bit paranoid."