I shrug. "The last one was memorable."
There's a flicker in his eyes. He hears the word, tries to decide if there's any teeth behind it. "Yeah." He laughs. "Some nights separate the winners from the losers."
I let a small smile touch my mouth. "Guess we'll see what this next one separates."
He straightens, ego full, convinced he already knows the answer. In his head, I've accepted my place. Background man. Quiet loser.
The guy who knows his wife prefers someone else. "Good attitude," he says. "Shows you understand the hierarchy."
"Oh," I tell him, voice calm and steady, "I understand it a lot better now."
He claps my shoulder like he's just blessed me and walks away. Already thinking about his next drink, his next power move, his next rooftop. He doesn't realize I didn't just confirm a party. I just confirmed the time and place where the same rooftop that crowned him king is going to strip him down in front of everyone.
The week before the party feels like living in two timelines at once. On the surface, I play the same role I've always played. Steady husband. Reliable man.
I come home on time. I wash dishes. I ask about her day. I kiss her forehead in the kitchen while she cooks.
Underneath, I'm logging everything. Monday, she makes my favorite dinner without a reason. Says she felt like spoiling me. She watches my face too closely when I take the first bite.
"It tastes good," I say.
The relief that flashes across her eyes is too big for a plate of food. Tuesday, there's a new book on the table. Some mechanic memoir I mentioned months ago in passing. She acts like she just stumbled on it.
"I saw it and thought of you," she says.
I thank her. Put it on the counter and write a note on my phone later. Gift timing off. Guilt compensation.
Her phone lives on silent now. Not vibrate, silent. Face down always. When it does light up, she finds a reason to leave the room.
"Going to switch the laundry."
"I need to check on something."
"Work text. I'll be right back."
The calls get longer at night. One evening, I pretend to be knocked out on the couch, TV flickering low. She slips into the hallway with her phone pressed to her ear, voice barely above a whisper.
"He's been different," she says. "Quieter. I think he's starting to suspect."
Pause.