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The first clue that my marriage belonged to another woman was two inches high. Every door handle in our home had been installed below standard, and reaching them sent pain through my back. I showed Callan the measurements. "It's not a big deal," he said. Until I stood beneath a leaking bus shelter. Across the street, Callan escorted his first love to his Porsche Cayenne, shielding her as his suit got soaked. Maris barely came up to his chest. That was when I understood. The handles weren't mistakes. He had designed the house for her. Our house. One message remained unread on my phone: [Could you take me home? My back is hurting again.] Callan said his wife couldn't ride with him because coworkers might gossip. I called the Valenne Design Residency. "I decide to accept the offer." This time, I wouldn't ask anyone's permission. Chapter 1 One month into my marriage, I noticed for the first time that every door handle in our house had been installed two inches lower than standard. That small difference forced me to bend every time I opened a door, making me even more exhausted. I measured the handles twice and brought it up with Callan Voss, but he brushed me off. One rainy afternoon, I found myself stranded beneath the bus shelter across from our office. Across the street, Callan was walking a youthful woman to his car. He held the umbrella almost entirely over her while rain soaked one shoulder of his suit. I knew her. Maris Bellamy was the new junior design associate at our firm. She had returned from a graduate program in London only a month earlier. Youthful and petite, she barely came up to Callan's torso. I put the tape measure back in my bag. The door handles hadn't been installed too low by mistake. They had been customized for her height. I checked my phone. The message I'd sent half an hour ago was still there. No reply. No read receipt. [My back is acting up again, and I can't get a ride in this rain. Could you take me home today?] His office was
