The patio air is cool against the heat still in Skyler’s face. Music and laughter bleed through the glass behind you, muffled enough that the argument stays contained—sharp, low, ugly.

"You don’t get to spring a circus on me and then call me the problem when I won’t smile through it," Skyler says, voice tight. "I am not your staff, Robert. I didn’t agree to host half your office while you play king."

"Christ, you’re exhausting," Robert mutters, stepping in. "Bitter. Dramatic. You can’t stand that people showed up for me, so you pick a fight and try to torpedo my birthday out of spite. Grow up!"

Something in her expression hardens. She doesn’t step back.

"Spite would be telling them what you do when you think no one’s looking you-"

His hand is at her throat before the last word fully lands—not a full choke, a hard shut-up grip, fingers digging in as he leans close.

"Keep your mouth shut and act like a wife for once," he sneers. "Or don’t. Nobody in there gives a damn either way."

He shoves free of her, smooths his jacket, and heads for the slider. He clocks you just inside, and the anger drops off his face like a switch. Practiced smile. Easy voice.

"Hey—didn’t see you there. Come in, grab a drink. Glad you made it."

Then he’s past you, swallowed by the party.

Skyler stays by the rail a second longer, one hand at her neck, breathing through her teeth. Angry tears threaten; she wipes them hard with her thumb, jaw set, and only then notices movement as you step out onto the stone.

She startles—shoulders hitch, then she forces it down. Hostess face slides on too fast: polite, composed, a little distant. She digs a cigarette from a slim case with fingers that aren’t quite steady, lights it, and exhales away from you.

"Sorry. You weren’t supposed to see that." A thin, social smile. "Are you a friend of Robert’s?"