The lock made a heavier sound than I expected.

It was not the soft click of a hotel-room door. It was a solid mechanical thud that seemed to travel through the walls of the suite and settle somewhere behind my ribs.

For several seconds, I continued looking through the glass doors at the harbor. The ship had begun moving away from Fort Lauderdale, slowly enough that the buildings onshore still looked fixed in place.

White balconies, palm trees, and rows of parked cars stretched beneath the late-afternoon sun.

The suite was larger than my first apartment. There were marble floors, cream-colored couches, a dining table for six, and a private balcony with a small pool. A bottle of champagne rested in a silver bucket beside a tray of strawberries.

Evan Caldwell had spent nearly thirty thousand dollars upgrading us to the best accommodation on the ship.

At the time, I had thought it was romantic.

“This place is incredible,” I said.

Behind me, Evan did not answer.

I turned.

My husband was standing beside the locked door with one hand still resting on the control panel. His wedding jacket had been folded over the back of a chair, and the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled to his elbows.

The expression on his face was unfamiliar.

Nothing dramatic had changed.

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