Keeley, weary from a day of monotonous gene sequencing, was ready to call it quits. Ordering takeout was a definite must; her brain was too fried to cook.

Over the years, she'd come to appreciate her wealth. It allowed her to avoid cooking whenever she wanted, attend fun weekend events, and enjoy great vacations—all without the pressures of high society.

After his parents' death, Aaron was shocked to discover he'd been included in their will. The entire Hale fortune was his. Already a billionaire, he didn't need it, so he consulted his frugal wife.

She was initially overwhelmed by the sheer number of zeros but eventually devised a plan. Some funds were set aside in a trust for their descendants' education, mirroring a similar trust established by her eccentric great-great-grandfather.

This used only a small fraction of the Hale family's generational wealth. Keeley's research was in Phase III of FDA approval, but she envisioned using the remaining funds to provide cheap or free gene therapy for cystic fibrosis patients once approved.

This January, her vision became reality. Hundreds of people nationwide had already received treatment through the Kaleb Hall Fund.

Aaron wholeheartedly supported the initiative, partly due to his support of Keeley's dream and partly because he knew his parents would despise the idea of their money helping "regular" people.

Ah, she'd married a complicated man. She shook her head with a slight smile, turning her phone back on. She had missed texts, a call, and a voicemail.

One message was from Aaron, simply stating, "I'm fine." Had he sent it to the wrong number? She hadn't contacted him beforehand.

Checking her voicemail, she discovered it was from the hospital. He'd been in an accident but was supposedly fine. However, "fine" was ambiguous—was he alive but hospitalized, or home and truly fine?

Keeley immediately called him; he answered on the second ring. "I got stitches in my shoulder, that's it," he said, foregoing the usual pleasantries.

Aaron, anticipating her call, didn't want to worry her. His mind-reading skills had only improved over their years of marriage.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Some idiot on a motorcycle broke my window; the glass cut me," he replied, his voice betraying a smile. "What, no asking if it hurts?"

"That was my next question, and you know it," she retorted. "Are you taking care of yourself? Don't go back to work!"

Aaron chuckled. "You sound like Violet. She's the one who picked me up at the hospital."

"Sorry, my phone was off," Keeley said apologetically.

That should have been her responsibility. Violet, a busy young woman, shouldn't have to care for her parents.

It was bad enough she was twenty-five and showed no inclination to move out. However, Keeley wouldn't evict her daughter from the only home she'd ever known. Violet was a homebody, a creature of habit.

Since graduating college, she rarely socialized outside of work and her relationship with Noah. She avoided socializing with coworkers and only occasionally met with college friends.

Keeley sometimes wondered if Violet would ever change. Would she still be living at home at forty, foregoing a family of her own?

Noah was clearly in love with her but hadn't acted on it. It seemed likely they'd remain best friends, living at home, without marrying.

Keeley marveled at her daughter's obliviousness, though it wasn't surprising. Violet was nearly as emotionally dense as her father had been in his first life.

"Don't worry, I understand. Are you on your way home?" Aaron asked hopefully.

"Yes. I was going to order takeout. Anything you want? You can choose since you're hurt," Keeley offered.

"All I want is to hold you. Get back here already," Aaron demanded.

She rolled her eyes. Of course. He always claimed her presence soothed him.

"Alright, but I have to hang up. See you at home. Love you!"

"Love you too."

Keeley ended the call and headed home, still worried about Violet. Aaron's tone indicated he was truly fine.

She wished her daughter would meet someone to shake things up. Violet's habits were comfortable but perhaps stifling her growth. Alternatively, she'd be equally happy if Noah finally confessed his feelings. Their relationship was calm and simple, which wasn't inherently bad.

He wouldn't challenge her much, doting on her and agreeing with everything, but that wasn't necessarily negative. If they preferred predictability and comfort, that was fine—as long as they moved out of their parents' houses.

Back at her building, the doorman handed her a stack of mail. Mostly credit card offers, but one was from the prison. Gray's correspondence continued, despite Aaron's monthly visits. A letter from Gray was the final blow to her already poor husband's day.