Our third anniversary ended with Killian claiming another late shift at the garage while I stared at a bargain cake I had bought after battling the supermarket crowds. Telling myself every sacrifice would help us afford a Brooklyn home, I packed the dessert away and headed into the freezing night to make delivery money. Then, outside an elite Manhattan hotel, I saw the man I believed was barely getting by leave a Rolls Royce in an immaculate tailored suit. He tipped the attendant with cash as a glamorous woman draped in rare rubies clung to his arm. Killian, she whispered, the storm is getting worse.
