But as they pulled into their own driveway, Claire looked at the brass key still in her palm. She slipped it onto her key ring, next to her house key and her office fob.

At 2 AM, the rules said you could retrieve your original partner. Claire dressed quietly. Tom kissed her forehead. “No regrets,” he said.

Tom offered his hand. “No pressure,” he said. “We can just talk.”

Claire reached in without looking, her fingers closing around a cold metal shaft. She pulled it out—a simple silver key with a blue rubber grip. She held it up. Across the room, a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a rugby shirt raised his glass. Tom. She’d noticed him earlier. Quiet. Married to the redhead in the black dress.

His guest room was all gray velvet and low lamplight. He poured two fingers of bourbon. She asked, “Does your wife know about the blue grip?”

Claire should have felt exposed. Instead, she felt seen. She unzipped her dress and let it pool at her feet. Tom’s breath caught. He didn’t move until she crossed to him and guided his hand to her hip.

Mark squeezed Claire’s hand. “Last chance to bail.”

Then the men drew. Mark’s turn. He fumbled a moment, then lifted a brass key—identical to the one from their invitation. Claire felt her stomach drop. Lena Harrison’s key.