Chapter 7: Just a Typo

The ghost of Paris lingered in the bedroom, hanging heavier than the scent of Richard’s cologne. He was in the bathroom, the shower running, washing away the tension of the dinner and whatever secrets he kept scrubbing from his skin.

I sat on the edge of the bed, the printout from the insurance portal burning a hole in my hand. It was just a piece of paper. A digital error made physical. But it felt radioactive.

*Beneficiary Spouse: Catherine Vane.*

The water stopped. A moment later, the door opened, steam billowing out. Richard emerged, a towel wrapped low around his hips, drying his hair with another. He looked wholesome. Safe. Like the man who coached Leo’s soccer team and remembered my mother’s birthday.

"God, that was exhausting," he sighed, tossing the towel onto the chair. "Mother is in rare form tonight. I think she needs to up her dosage."

He walked over to the dresser, reaching for his pajamas. He caught my reflection in the mirror and paused.

"Elena? You okay? You look pale."

"We need to talk," I said. My voice didn't shake. I wouldn't let it.

I held up the paper.

Richard turned, confused. "About what? The zoning variance? I told you, the meeting went fine."

"Not the zoning. The insurance."

He frowned, walking closer. "The Key Man policy? Did Simon call? Don't tell me the rates went up again."

"Just look at it, Richard."

He took the paper from me. I watched his eyes scan the lines. I waited for the laugh. The incredulous snort. The quick pull of his phone to call Simon and demand a correction.

Instead, he went still.

His eyes stopped moving. His jaw muscle ticked—once, twice. A tiny, betraying rhythm.

"This is weird," he said finally. His voice was too casual. Too light. It was the voice he used when he was trying to sell a condo project that was three months behind schedule. "Must be some kind of clerical mix-up. I'll have Marcus look at it in the morning."

He tried to hand the paper back to me. I didn't take it.

"It says Catherine is your wife, Richard. It says the data comes from a federal marriage license. From 2002."

"2002?" He laughed then, but it sounded hollow, like a coin dropping into an empty well. "Honey, in 2002 I was backpacking through Europe. I was barely paying my own phone bill, let alone getting married. It's obviously a data merge error. Remember when the bank thought Dad was still alive last year? Same thing."

"I called Simon," I said. "He said the record is valid. He said he can't change it without a divorce decree."

Richard’s face hardened. The charm evaporated, revealing the sharp, calculated bone structure beneath. He crumpled the paper in his fist.

"Simon is an old fool who relies too much on automated systems. I'll handle him." He walked past me, tossing the ball of paper into the wastebasket. "You're stressed, El. You're seeing shadows because you haven't slept in three days."

"I'm seeing shadows because your sister just talked about Paris," I shot back, standing up. "The place where we got engaged. The place you said was special for *us*."

He spun around. "She's sick, Elena! She's mentally ill. She parrots things she hears. She probably heard us talking about our trip and got confused. Why are you doing this? Why are you looking for reasons to be upset?"

"I am looking for the truth!"

"The truth is that I am exhausted, my mother is a tyrant, and my wife is having a paranoid episode over a typo!"

He shouted it. The volume shocked us both. Richard never yelled. He charmed. He negotiated. He didn't yell.

The silence that followed was thick and vibrating.

He took a breath, running a hand through his damp hair. He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a soothing, dangerous register.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't mean to snap. It's just... the pressure. The business. Eleanor. And now this ridiculous computer error."

He reached out, placing his hands on my shoulders. His thumbs rubbed circles into my tense muscles. It was meant to be comforting. It felt like a restraint.

"You do too much, Elena," he said softly. "You carry the weight of the whole world. No wonder you're cracking."

"I'm not cracking," I said, but the conviction was leaking out of me.

"Are you sure?" He tilted his head, looking at me with a pity that made my stomach turn. "Maybe Mother is right. Maybe you need to step back from the finances for a while."