The bedroom door had been closed for exactly forty-seven seconds before the first moan leaked through.
Genevieve and Maya sat on opposite ends of the living room couch—one woman who'd known Peter for less than twenty-four hours, and one who'd been living in the blast radius of his existence for much longer.
Between them: three cushions of neutral space, a glass coffee table with an untouched bowl of fruit that was rapidly becoming Maya'semotional support produce section, and the growing, unmistakable soundtrack of Isabella getting her soul rearranged with architectural precision.
A muffled thud hit the wall. Then another.
Then a rhythm of that sound.
Steady. Professional.
The cadence that suggested someone had consulted the Kama Sutra and then decided physics was negotiable.
Genevieve stared straight ahead like she was watching paint dry on someone else's existential crisis.
