The Five Stages of Grief

Miranda read the message again.

She had already memorized it, line by line, the way people memorized something they were hoping would change if they stared at it long enough. The wording stayed the same.

Temporary Spousal Assignment. Authorized Residential Access. Surname Adjustment Pending Administrative Completion. Her name still appeared at the top of the mail window.

Miranda Jensen .

Not for long.

She pressed the screen dark and sat still at her desk, fingers resting on the edge of the keyboard as if she had simply paused between tasks instead of stopped working entirely. Around her the office sounded exactly the same as always.

Chairs moving.

Someone laughing two rows back.

Coffee being poured.

Someone talking too loudly about a weekend visit that clearly had not been a visit at all. Everything was normal.

Which made the message worse. She opened it again.

The same words.

Authorized residential access.

He could come whenever he wanted. He could already be inside. Miranda **** herself to breathe slowly and stood up. She needed to talk to someone.

---

She found Katrine near the printers. Katrine looked up immediately. "Did you get assigned?" Miranda asked.

Katrine blinked once. "Weeks ago," she said. "Didn’t you?"

Miranda hesitated.

"Yes," she said carefully. "But I didn’t—"

"Participate?"

Miranda nodded once.

Katrine’s expression shifted, not to sympathy, but to recognition.

"Then you probably got the follow‑up notice today," she said.

Miranda swallowed. "You knew?"

"Everyone knows," Katrine said lightly. "They escalate if you wait. It’s standard."

Standard.

Miranda stared at her. "You’re… fine with it?" Katrine smiled.

"It’s not what anyone planned," she said. "But it isn’t terrible either."

She leaned closer, lowering her voice slightly, though not enough to make the conversation secret.

"You got Lars , didn’t you?"

Miranda froze.

"Yes," she said.

Katrine’s smile widened.

"You’re lucky," she said.

Miranda stared at her again.

Lucky.

"He knows what he’s doing with his marvelous tool." Katrine continued " he is an absolute beast"

Miranda ’s throat tightened.

"He’s almost sixty," she said.

"Exactly," Katrine said. "Experienced. Confident. Reliable."

Reliable.

Miranda said nothing.

Katrine studied her face.

"You didn’t go through with it," she said more gently.

Miranda shook her head.

Katrine exhaled.

"You should," she said. "Honestly. I. never had a better fuck than this grandpa"

Miranda looked down at the printer tray.

"He’s moving in," she said quietly.

Katrine didn’t look surprised.

"Yes," she said. "That happens. It’s the integration stage."

The made Miranda ’s stomach turn.

Katrine rested her hand briefly on Miranda ’s arm.

"You’ll be fine," she said. "Really."

Miranda wasn’t sure whether she meant it.

---

Her manager listened without interrupting.

He folded his hands when she finished speaking.

"The directive isn’t optional," he said carefully. "You already know that."

"He can’t just move into my house," Miranda said.

"Legally," he replied, "he can."

She stared at him.

"There has to be something I can do."

"You can cooperate," he said gently.

Miranda felt heat rise in her chest.

"That isn’t what I meant."

He studied her for a moment.

" Miranda ," he said quietly, "the integration stage exists because the earlier stages failed."

She said nothing.

"Most people adjust," he added. "It’s easier if you let yourself adjust."

Most people.

Miranda nodded once, though she hadn’t agreed to anything.

---

By the time she got home the light outside had already begun fading.

She locked the door immediately after stepping inside.

Then she checked the windows.

Then she checked them again.

The house felt too quiet.

Too open.

Too temporary.

She pulled the curtains closed one by one.

The living room.

The kitchen.

The hallway window near the stairs.

John ’s chair stood exactly where he had left it.

His jacket still hung behind the door.

Everything was still his.

Still theirs.

She stood in the hallway for a long time before finally going upstairs.

Sleep didn’t come.

Every small sound felt like a warning.

Every passing car made her sit upright.

At some point she must have drifted off anyway.

Because the next thing she heard was a key turning in the lock.

Miranda's eyes opened immediately.

For a moment she didn't move.

The key turned again.

The door opened

John .

The thought arrived before anything else. John is home.

She was already halfway down the stairs before she realized she hadn't heard his voice.

Not his step.

Not the way he usually closed the door behind him.

She reached the bottom of the stairs just as Lars stepped into the hallway carrying a suitcase.

Two men followed behind him with boxes.

He looked exactly as he had the last time she saw him.

Comfortable.

Certain.

At home.

Before she could form a protest, he crossed the space between them in three long strides. Miranda stood frozen, her mouth slightly open, words trapped in her throat. His hand cupped the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair as he tilted her head back. His mouth descended on hers, firm and demanding, a kiss that claimed rather than asked. It went on and on, stealing her breath and thoughts until her mind went blank with shock.

When he finally pulled back, Miranda stumbled back a step, her hand flying to her lips.

"You can't just—" she finally managed, her voice trembling. "This is my house. You're not allowed here."

The movers stepped past her without hesitation, carrying boxes toward the stairs.

Lars followed them in, not looking at Miranda at all at first.

He paused in the hallway and glanced around slowly.

The coat rack.

The living room doorway.

The staircase.

As if confirming something rather than discovering it.

"Bedroom upstairs," he told the movers calmly.

They nodded and continued past him.

Miranda stayed where she was.

"You can't just move into our house," she said, her voice gaining strength.

He didn't answer.

He walked into the living room instead, stepping around the edge of the rug as though he already knew where everything belonged. He set his suitcase down beside the chair that had always been John 's and looked out toward the curtained window for a moment.

"Coffee," he said, turning back to face her.

As Miranda hesitated, he closed the distance between them again. His hand came down hard against her backside, the sharp slap echoing in the quiet room. The sting made her gasp, heat blooming across her skin. His hand lingered on her big ass and gave it a squeeze.

"Black," he added, his eyes dark with amusement at her shocked expression.

Miranda stared at him, speechless.

He settled onto the couch instead of John 's chair, stretching his arms along the backrest as if he already owned it. "We'll have a proper talk tonight," he said easily, his gaze traveling over her body. "And I'll give you a good time later today. Something to look forward to."

He didn't look at her when he said it.

He simply leaned back and made himself at home.