Marcus didn't say a word in the car.

His driver took the long route from Alder & Vine to his penthouse in the Seaport. Twenty-two minutes of leather seats and tinted windows and Marcus staring at the dark water like it owed him a debt. His hands were folded in his lap. His jaw was locked. He looked exactly the way he looked before acquiring a company — composed, patient, already three moves ahead of whoever thought they were winning.

I sat on my side and watched the harbor lights and thought about how to say something that was true and sounded like a lie.

The rain started somewhere near the convention center — small drops at first, then heavy enough to blur the harbor into a smear of orange and white. The driver turned the wipers on. The rhythmic slap against the windshield was the only sound in the car for eight blocks.

He didn't speak until we were inside the apartment. Door closed. Shoes off. The harbor turning the living room blue through floor-to-ceiling glass.

"Tell me." Not a question.

I dropped my clutch on the kitchen island and poured a glass of water because my mouth was sandpaper. The faucet handle was cold. The water tasted like copper and the inside of a building I'd been pretending was home.

"I met him fourteen months ago. A bar in the North End. I was killing time between showings, he was sitting alone, we started talking. We were together three months. No last names — his rule, and I went along with it because it made the whole thing feel separate from the rest of my life. I called him Caleb. He called me Joss. I never saw his mail, never met his friends, never knew his family existed."

Marcus was leaning against the island, arms crossed. His expression was a locked building — you could see the shape of what was inside, but nothing was getting through the doors.

"Continue."

"He disappeared. No call, no text, no goodbye. I woke up one morning and he was gone. The apartment on Fleet Street was empty. I called for a week. Nothing. I stopped calling. Six months later I met you at the Devonshire closing."

"And you didn't see the resemblance."

I almost laughed. "Marcus. You wear custom suits and smell like a department store. He wore paint-stained jeans and smelled like sawdust. You share a jawline. That's it."

"He was—" I caught myself. Pulled the sentence back like yanking a dog off a ledge.

"He was what?"

"A different person in a different part of my life. That part ended when he walked out. I moved on. You're what I moved on to."

Marcus uncrossed his arms. Walked to the window. His reflection watched me from the glass — sharp profile, dark suit, the absolute stillness of a man deciding how much damage to assign.

"I asked you once if there was anyone serious before me. You said no."

"Three months with a man whose last name I didn't know. That's not serious. That's a fire I walked away from."

He turned around. His expression had shifted — the locked building was open now, and what was inside wasn't rage. It was calculation. The same look he got when a deal turned complicated and the solution required not strength but patience.

"Here's what I think happened," he said. He crossed the room. Took the water glass out of my hand and set it on the counter. Held my face with both hands — thumbs on my cheekbones, firm enough to feel like a signature on a contract.

"I think you met a man who was exciting and temporary and beneath you. I think you enjoyed it and I think it ended and I think you forgot about it the way people forget vacations. And now he's shown up and made it ugly. That's not your fault."

His thumbs pressed slightly. Not painful. Declarative.

"But it's done now, Joss. Whatever that was. It's over. You said yes to me. You're wearing my ring. We're getting married, and none of this leaves this apartment."

He kissed me. It was slow and possessive and tasted like champagne and certainty. Like a man marking a boundary.