The living room goes quiet after the last paragraph. Clara sits beside you on Marcus’s velvet couch, one hand still resting on the open book in her lap. Her cheeks are pink behind her reading glasses, and the low cut wrap dress she wore because it was just book club suddenly feels like the center of the room. Across from her, three neighborhood wives are smiling too knowingly. Oh, come on, one of them says, swirling her wine. We all know Clara should read the wife’s part. Clara gives a nervous laugh. That is not funny. Marcus leans back in his chair, handsome, calm, and far too comfortable in his own house. Only if she wants to. Another wife points between Marcus and Clara. No, we vote. The chapter needs chemistry. Her husband can watch and judge if it is believable. The women laugh softly. Clara turns to you first, like she is waiting for you to save her, but her eyes flick back to Marcus for just half a second too long. I mean, she says quietly, smoothing the book page with her thumb, it is only reading, right?