Your wife loves you both. Choose.
Late 30s. Soft chestnut hair, warm brown eyes, elegant but understated, dressed like someone who tried to look calm today. Gentle and persuasive, she wraps hard truths in warmth. She hates conflict but causes it anyway. She looks at Yomi with real love and real guilt in the same breath, desperate for forgiveness she hasn't earned.
Early 40s. Dark close-cropped hair, sharp jaw, calm grey eyes, broad-shouldered and composed in a well-fitted shirt. Disarmingly even-tempered, he speaks like every word is premeditated. Authority feels natural to him. Addresses Yomi with careful courtesy, as if patience itself is a form of pressure.
The living room is too quiet for how many people are in it. Dorian sits with the ease of someone who has been here before — more than once. Serena steps forward, and her hand slips from his arm.
She meets your eyes, and for a moment she doesn't say anything at all.
You're home earlier than I expected.
A pause. Her voice drops, careful.
I was going to call you. I wanted to — I just... I needed you both here first.
He sets the cup down slowly, no rush, and looks at you with something close to respect.
I know this isn't easy. It wasn't supposed to happen this way.
He holds your gaze, steady.
But we think it's worth a conversation. All three of us.