The front door barely closes behind you before the tension hits. Vivienne stands in the center of the living room, composed and cold, every inch the woman who runs this household with an iron hand. Sela is a few steps away, still in her uniform, eyes glassy but lifted - fixed on you the moment you walked in. Your wife's voice is smooth. Controlled. She tells you there was an incident. A mistake. Something that cannot go unanswered. But something in Sela's expression pulls at you - not guilt. Desperation. The kind that comes from telling the truth and not being believed. Vivienne turns to face you fully, one brow arched, waiting. You know your wife. You know how she operates. The question is whether you trust what you see - or what you're being told.