The sun was deceptively soft in the morning haze of their Los Angeles patio. Daphne Sullivan wore her oversized sunglasses like armor, a pastel robe cinched with the kind of casual elegance only inherited money could cultivate. She was scrolling through her phone with a green juice in one hand and a mild hangover nesting behind her forehead like a smug cat.

Across from her, Cameron Sullivan was already fully dressed for the day—designer polo, pressed khakis, watch glinting like a little mirror of smugness on his tanned wrist. He was nursing a double espresso with the intensity of a man who had serious things to do and no patience for the people in his way.

Which today, unfortunately, included his wife.

"So you forgot again," Cameron said, flatly.

Daphne blinked, lowering her phone. "Forgot what?"

He gave her a look.

"The board meeting," he said. "My job, Daphne. You know—the thing I do that pays for all of this?" He gestured vaguely at their pristine outdoor kitchen and the minimalist sculpture Daphne once insisted was "spiritually healing."

"Oh. Right," she said, with zero conviction. "Well, you go to a lot of meetings."

"It was a quarterly earnings call," he said. "With investors. I told you about it three times. You said you'd come. You RSVP'd to the lunch."

She sipped her juice. "Did I?"

"Jesus Christ, yes, Daphne," Cameron snapped. "I'm not crazy. You nodded, smiled, told me you were proud of me. Then yesterday you sent me a video of a golden retriever licking a popsicle and said, 'We should get one of these.'"

Daphne blinked. "We should get a golden retriever. He was adorable."

Cameron set his espresso down too hard. "You're not listening to me."

"No, I am," she said, putting her phone face down, which in Daphne's world was the equivalent of rolling up her sleeves. "I forgot something. I'm sorry."

"It's not just something. It's always. It's everything." Cameron ran a hand through his already-perfect hair. "You forgot my mom's birthday dinner. You thought I still worked in mergers and acquisitions, and I haven't since 2019. You called my colleague Ben 'Brad' for a year, Daphne."

She gave him a flat look. "Well, he has big Brad energy. That's not on me."

"Daphne."

"What do you want from me, Cam?" she snapped, her voice rising suddenly. "You want me to take notes on your schedule like a secretary from Mad Men? Maybe I should set up a little desk in your office and wear pencil skirts and red lipstick and call you Mr. Sullivan, would that help?"

Cameron opened his mouth to respond but hesitated.

"You think I'm dumb," she said, standing abruptly. "You've always thought I was dumb. You think I float around like some airhead and you're the serious, high-powered money man."

"I don't think you're dumb," he said, clearly shocked by the volume of her voice.

"You treat me like I'm optional," she continued, gesturing wildly. "Like I'm this cute little add-on to your real life, this trophy you can bring to parties and vacation with and buy expensive lingerie for—"

"Don't pretend you don't like the lingerie."

"That is not the point, Cameron!" she yelled. "The point is, I forget because I'm tired. Because I'm overwhelmed. Because no one ever asks me how I'm doing unless it's to say I look amazing in a bathing suit or that I'm a 'great mom' because I post curated Instagram photos of the kids you barely remember we have!"

Cameron recoiled like she'd slapped him.

There was a long, stunned silence.

"I didn't know you felt like that," he said quietly.

"No, you didn't," she said, eyes shining, "because you don't ask. You assume."

More silence.

"Daph…" he said. "Is this about the thing with Ethan and Harper?"

Daphne scoffed. "Oh please. You think I'm still obsessing over that? I knew what that was. You think I'm surprised Harper kissed you in a blackout haze of sexual jealousy and unresolved marital tension? I watch Dateline, Cameron. I get it."

He blinked. "She kissed me?"

"Don't pretend you didn't love it," she said, grabbing her juice and storming toward the sliding glass doors.

Later that evening, Ethan and Harper arrived for dinner, the tension so thick you could slice it with one of Daphne's monogrammed cheese knives.

"Wow, what a view," Harper said, stepping out to the patio. "Your sunsets are always giving rich people peace."

"Rich people are the only ones allowed to be peaceful," Daphne said, a little too sharply, pouring herself a very full glass of wine.

Ethan raised an eyebrow at Cameron. "Everything good?"

Cameron gave a brittle laugh. "You know. Same old marriage stuff."

Daphne turned. "Oh, you want to bring them into this? Should I tell them how you said I'm incapable of remembering anything about you, or just how you wish I were a more engaged wife?"

Harper blinked. "Oh! Dinner and drama. I love this show."

Ethan tried to defuse the bomb. "Maybe we should play a game?"

Daphne smiled thinly. "Sure. Let's play 'Who Knows Their Spouse.'"

Cameron groaned. "Please, no."

"No, let's! I'll go first," Daphne said, facing Cameron. "What's my favorite flower?"

"Uh… tulips?"

"Peonies."

"Oh come on, that's a hard one."

Daphne turned to Harper. "What's Ethan's favorite childhood movie?"

Harper didn't hesitate. "Jurassic Park. He cried when the T-Rex saved the kids."

"I didn't cry—"

"She knows," Daphne said, pointing. "Because she pays attention."

Cameron threw up his hands. "Okay, yes, I suck at remembering flowers! You forget entire people, Daphne! You thought I was in real estate for six months!"

"Because I had to focus on remembering where our kids' birth certificates are and which of your clients hate gluten! I've got mental storage issues, Cam!"

Dinner ended in half-burnt risotto and a half-hour of silence.

Harper and Ethan made a very polite, very quick exit. "We're just gonna, uh, beat the traffic," Harper mumbled, backing out of the driveway like the car was on fire.

Inside, Daphne sat on the kitchen island, swirling wine, barefoot, mascara smudged.

Cameron leaned in the doorway, exhausted. "You really think I treat you like you're optional?"

She didn't answer.

He sighed. "You're not optional. You're the whole point, Daph. I suck at saying it, I suck at showing it, but… when you forget things, it's not about the things. It just makes me scared I'm disappearing in your life."

She looked up. "And when you correct me all the time, it makes me feel like I'm disposable."

They stared at each other.

He walked over, placed his forehead against hers.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'll stop being such a hard-ass."

She sniffled. "And I'll try to remember more. Like what you actually do. Finance… stuff."

"Close enough."

They both laughed, the kind of laugh that's more tired than joyful but healing nonetheless.

Later that night, as they curled into bed, Daphne murmured, "Hey, what do you actually do again?"

Cameron sighed into her shoulder. "Sweetheart, it's complicated."

"See? You forgot to make it interesting."

And for the first time in weeks, they both laughed, for real this time.

Because remembering wasn't just about details.

It was about remembering to care.