The scent of ginger and slow-simmered broth filled the small apartment, a fragrant lie of domesticity. Linsy turned to retreat to the brittle sanctuary of the sofa, but the sound of his voice stopped her.

“It’s almost ready. You must be hungry.” Michael stood framed in the kitchen doorway, a dish towel draped over his shoulder, a faint sheen of steam on his brow. The domesticity of the image was a surreal assault.

She faced him, her posture rigid. “I’ll be satisfied when you ...