The invitation arrived in a plain cream envelope, no return address. Inside, a single key—brass, heavy, old-fashioned—taped to a card that read: The Harrisons. 8 PM. Bring nothing but an open mind.

“So glad you came,” Lena purred. “The bowl is in the library.”

She found Mark in the main hallway, leaning against the wall, shirt untucked, looking younger than she’d seen him in years. He held out the brass key.

By ten, the wine had loosened everyone. The librarian—a stern woman with kind eyes—collected keys on a silver tray. Claire watched Mark drop his Porsche fob next to a Ford key, a BMW, a Volvo. The clink of metal against crystal felt like a starting pistol.

Claire took the key, her fingers brushing his. “We’ve talked about it for a year. The last swap at the beach house was… fine. But this,” she tapped the card, “is the real thing. The Key Party.”

The next party was in three weeks. Claire was already counting the days.