Category: English

1 Ronan spent six years photographing wildlife, and I stayed by his side as he rose from an unknown amateur to a signed professional. During his hardest year, I drained my savings for him—camera lenses, off-road rentals, shooting permits. Last year, when he was nominated for an international award, I asked if I could join him in the Yukon to see the timber wolves he always talked about. He didn’t look up, just kept wiping his lens. “Conditions are too brutal. You aren’t cut out for it.” I said okay and never asked again. This May, a major outdoor magazine released a Wilderness Photographers Special Edition. Ronan was on the cover, locked in a standoff with a lone wolf, rugged and impossibly handsome. The credit listed two names: Ronan and Lily. Inside, a candid showed them clinking tin mugs by a bonfire. He was smiling, relaxed, his arm draped over her shoulder. The caption read: Best partner. Forty days in the tundra. Couldn’t have done it without you. I set the magazine down, brewed my coffee, and drank in silence. Then I booked a one-way ticket to Banff National Park. For six years, I had stayed in the city managing his life so he could chase his dreams. If there was no room for me in his wilderness, I would go see the snow-capped mountains alone. … “Megan, Lily is taking the guest room tonight.” The front door pushed open. Ronan strode into the entryway, dropping three massive waterproof gear duffels onto the floor. It was his first day back from the Yukon expedition. I was sitting on the couch, holding a mug of coffee that had gone completely cold. I looked past him. Lily peeked out from behind his broad shoulders. She was wearing an oversized men’s Arc’teryx hardshell jacket. “Hey Megan, sorry to crash here!” She giggled, casually slipping her feet into a pair of fluffy pink house slippers by the shoe rack. Those were my slippers. Ronan kicked his boots off. “A pipe burst in her apartment building. The landlord hasn’t fixed it yet, so she is going to stay with us for a few days.” “The guest room is my art studio,” I said. It was packed with my drawing tablets, canvases, and the commissioned drafts I was working on. “I won’t take up much space, I promise.” Lily walked right past me, reaching for the water pitcher on the coffee table. “And I totally swear I won’t touch any of your precious little paintbrushes.” She poured a glass of water and gulped down half of it. “God, Ronan, I am dying of thirst.” She didn’t call him Mr. Ronan or boss. Just Ronan. Ronan shrugged off his jacket. Without a second thought, he took the glass from her hand and drained the rest of her water. The movement was painfully natural. Like they had done it a thousand times. “Just tidy up the studio a bit and clear enough space for a bed,” he said, turning to me. His tone was a corporate memo. An order, not a discussion. “There is no bed in there.” I stared at the glass they had just shared. “There is only a pull out sofa, and my wet oil paintings are currently drying on it.” Ronan frowned. “Then move the paintings to the living room. Lily just survived forty days in the freezing tundra. Her back is killing her. I am not making her sleep on a lumpy sofa.” Her back was killing her. Six years ago, when he shot his first starry night time lapse, he was too broke to afford a thermal tent. I stood in the snow in ten degree weather, keeping him company for three nights straight. The extreme hypothermia wrecked my immune system and left me with severe chronic pelvic cramps. Every month, I was in so much pain I couldn’t even stand up straight. He forgot. I stood up and walked toward the studio. “Fine. I will clear it out.” “You are the best, Megan!” Lily called out behind me. I carried the oil paintings out one by one, leaning them against the corner of the living room. I pulled out the folding mattress. I laid down fresh, clean sheets. When I walked back out, Ronan was sitting on the living room rug, unzipping his gear bags and pulling out dry sacks. Lily was sitting cross legged right beside him. “Ronan, hand me the red bag.” She pointed at a corner of the duffel. Ronan pulled out a red waterproof sack and tossed it to her. Lily opened it and dumped a pile of souvenirs onto the rug. There was a wolf tooth pendant, a few raw quartz stones, and a braided leather bracelet with a piece of turquoise. “Help me put this turquoise one on.” She held out her wrist, leaning in close to him. Ronan set his camera down. He picked up the bracelet and carefully fastened the clasp around her wrist. “Perfect fit,” he chuckled. “Duh. You handpicked it for me.” I stood two steps away, watching them. Ronan looked up and finally noticed me. His expression froze for a fraction of a second before snapping back to normal. “Megan, come look at this.” He pointed at the floor. “The locals at the trading post gave these to us. Lily picked out a few, see if you like anything that is left.” Anything that is left. I walked over and looked down. A few dull, gray rocks and a cheaply made wooden beaded necklace. “Where is the hand braided alpine wool bracelet you promised me?” I asked calmly. Before he left for the Yukon, he told me about a local Indigenous artisan who wove bracelets from naturally shed wildlife wool. It was supposed to symbolize peace and protection. I told him I wanted one. He had promised me he would get it. Ronan froze. His hand dug around in the dry sack. His movements grew slower and slower. “About that…” “Oh my gosh, Megan, I am so sorry.” Lily suddenly cut in, raising her right hand. Right next to the turquoise, wrapped around her wrist, was a beautifully crafted, authentic alpine wool bracelet. “We only found one at the trading post.” Her voice was thick with innocent guilt, laced with a sickly sweet whine. “Ronan said I worked so hard carrying the heavy tripods in the tundra, so he gave it to me as a reward.” She stroked the woven threads. “You aren’t mad at me, are you?” I didn’t look at her. I kept my eyes locked on Ronan. “You gave it to her?” “It is just a piece of string.” Ronan avoided my gaze, picking his lens cloth back up. “They sell that stuff everywhere up there. We were on a tight shooting schedule, I didn’t have time to shop around.” “Next time. I will buy you a dozen of them next time.” Next time. For six years, those were his favorite two words. When he couldn’t afford a diamond ring, he said he would make it up to me next time. When he missed my birthday because he was on a shoot, he promised to double the celebration next time. And now, even a simple, promised bracelet was pushed to next time. “Megan, if you really love it that much, I can take it off and give it to you.” Lily made a big show of tugging at the clasp. She fumbled with it for a few seconds. “Ugh, the knot is tied way too tight.” “Forget it. Leave it on.” Ronan grabbed her hand, stopping her. He looked up at me. “Megan, are you seriously going to make a scene over this? Lily bruised her legs up hiking through the brush to find my camera angles. Is it a crime to give her a souvenir?” His tone was dripping with impatience. He thought I was being irrational. He thought I was petty and jealous. I looked at his hand, still resting protectively over Lily’s fingers. Long, elegant fingers. Prominent knuckles. Those were the hands I had babied and cared for over six years of my youth. I took extra commissions and stayed up until dawn just so those hands could hold expensive cameras. Now, those hands were protecting another woman. “No. It isn’t a crime.” I said softly. I turned around and walked toward the kitchen. “There are frozen dumplings in the fridge. You can boil them yourself.” “I am not hungry.” Ronan called out behind me. I didn’t look back. I unlocked my phone and opened my Expedia app. My flight to Banff National Park was already paid in full. Departure date. Three days from now. 2 The next day was Saturday. The outdoor magazine hosted a small, exclusive book signing and networking event to celebrate Ronan’s special edition selling over a hundred thousand copies. At eight in the morning, I was standing in the kitchen frying eggs. Ronan emerged from the bedroom, fully dressed and immaculate. He wore a black turtleneck under a premium Arc’teryx jacket gifted by his sponsors. He looked sharp. Triumphant. “I am heading out. Gotta set up the venue by nine.” He walked to the entryway to put on his shoes. I slid the fried egg onto a plate and carried it out. “Am I not going?” I asked him. He paused, his hand hovering over his boot laces. He stood up straight and adjusted his collar. “Why would you go?” “It is strictly industry people today. Sponsors, editors, rival photographers.” “You aren’t in the business. You wouldn’t know what to talk about. You would just sit there looking bored.” I set the plate down on the dining table. “Six years ago, when you self published your first photo book, you didn’t sell a single copy.” “I stood out in the blistering sun, handing them out to strangers, begging people to look at your work.” “Why didn’t you tell me I wasn’t in the business back then?” Ronan’s brows pulled together. He hated it when I brought up the past. “Megan, do you always have to keep score?” “Things are different now. Today is an official, professional event. I have to network. I don’t have the energy to babysit you.” He sounded so incredibly righteous. The door to the guest room clicked open. Lily walked out, stifling a yawn. She was wearing the exact same Arc’teryx jacket, just a size smaller. Matching outfits. “Morning, Ronan.” She strolled over to the dining table. Without asking, she picked up the fried egg from my plate and took a massive bite. “Mmm. You are such a good cook, Megan.” “Finish up, we need to move. The chief editor is already on his way.” Ronan rushed her, but his voice lacked any of the cold impatience he had just directed at me. I looked at the two of them. “She is allowed to go?” “Lily is the co-author of this special edition. Of course she is going.” Ronan spoke as if it was the most obvious truth in the world. “She is my best partner.” Best partner. What a beautiful title. “Got it.” I sat down and took a sip of my milk. “Have a good time.” Ronan gave me a weird look. He seemed unnerved by how unnaturally calm I was acting. He opened his mouth to say something, but swallowed the words instead. The front door clicked shut. I sat alone and quietly finished a breakfast with no eggs. At eleven in the morning, my phone rang. It was Sloane. Sloane was my college roommate and the senior editor at a fashion magazine. “Megan, have you checked Instagram?” “No. Why?” “Your boy Ronan is soaking up all the glory at his little signing event.” “Good for him.” “Good for him my ass! Open Lily’s page right now!” Sloane was practically screaming through the speaker. I put her on speakerphone and opened the app. Lily had posted a photo dump ten minutes ago. The center photo showed her and Ronan standing in front of a massive promotional banner. Ronan was holding a microphone, addressing the crowd. Lily stood right beside him, her head tilted, looking up at him with pure, unfiltered adoration. The caption read: “All those freezing nights in the snow, all the frostbitten fingers in the tundra. Today, it was all worth it.” “Thank you, Ronan.” The comments were flooded with industry insiders. “Power couple alert!” “Lily, you are a legend. Ronan is lucky to have you.” I scrolled through the comments one by one. Staring at the blinding, toxic words. “You see it?” Sloane demanded over the phone. “I see it.” “Megan, are you literally blind? Half the photos in that magazine were color graded and retouched by you during your all nighters.” “The thirty thousand dollars he needed to fund that Yukon trip? You took out a second mortgage on your parents’ old house for that!” “And now some clout chasing assistant is standing on that stage soaking up your applause!” Sloane was breathing heavily, absolutely furious. I looked calmly out the window at the midday sun. “Sloane.” “What?” “I booked a one way ticket to Banff.” The line went dead silent. It took several seconds for Sloane to find her voice. When she spoke, it was low and quiet. “Are you serious?” “Yeah.” “You aren’t coming back?” “I am not coming back.” “Good.” Sloane let out a long, heavy exhale. “Do you need help packing?” “No. I can handle it myself.” I hung up the phone and walked into the master bedroom. I pulled open the bottom drawer of the closet. Two large, heavy duty suitcases were tucked inside. I pulled one out and started stuffing my clothes into it. I didn’t own much. Over the last six years, every spare dollar I earned went straight into upgrading Ronan’s camera lenses. The closet was stuffed with his expensive Arc’teryx and Mammut gear. My warmest winter coat was a clearance rack parka I bought three years ago. My phone buzzed. It was Ronan. “Megan.” The background noise was chaotic. People were cheering his name. “What is it?” “I left my black external hard drive at the apartment. The one terabyte one.” He sounded frantic. “It is in the second drawer on the left side of my desk. Can you bring it to the hotel right now?” “I have a massive media interview in twenty minutes and I need the raw video files on it.” I looked down at the sweater I was folding. “I am busy.” “Busy doing what? Drawing your cheap little three hundred dollar commissions?” The insult slipped out of his mouth effortlessly. He caught himself a second later. “Megan, I didn’t mean it like that. This interview is huge. The chief editor set it up personally.” “I am begging you. Just do me this one favor, okay?” I closed my eyes. For six years, every single “cheap little commission” I drew funded the film inside his cameras. Now, he thought my work was a waste of time. “Fine. I will bring it.” “Thank you. Call me when you get here.” He hung up immediately. I dropped the sweater into the suitcase and zipped it up. I walked into his office, grabbed the black drive from the drawer, and ordered an Uber to the event hotel. The banquet hall was packed and roaring with conversation. I didn’t go inside. I stood in the quiet hallway near the side entrance and texted Ronan. “I am at the side door.” I waited five minutes. The heavy oak door swung open. It wasn’t Ronan. It was Lily. She was holding a flute of champagne. Her cheeks were flushed. “Hey Megan, Ronan is stuck on stage. He asked me to come grab it.” She held out her hand. I looked at her. “Tell him to come get it himself.” Lily let out an exaggerated sigh. “Megan, can you please stop being so difficult?” “The room is full of major investors. Ronan is telling them all about our near death experiences in the Yukon.” “If you drag him out here right now, you are going to ruin the vibe for everyone.” She hit the word “our” incredibly hard. I ignored her and turned to leave. “Megan!” Ronan’s voice echoed behind me. He pushed the side door open and stormed out, his brow furrowed in anger. “What kind of tantrum are you throwing now?” He snatched the hard drive directly out of my hand. “Lily was nice enough to come out here to help you, and you give her an attitude?” I stared at my empty palm. “She told me to stop being difficult.” “Is she wrong?” Ronan lowered his voice, his tone dripping with disappointment. “Today is the most important day of my career. If you can’t be helpful, the least you could do is not sabotage me.” Sabotage. I repeated the word in my head. “I guess after six years, the only thing I am good for is sabotaging you.” Ronan tugged at his collar, visibly irritated. “I don’t have time to argue with you.” He turned back to the door and glanced at Lily. “Come on, Lily. The boss wants to talk to you.” The heavy door clicked shut. Locking me completely out of his glamorous, glittering new world. I stood alone in the hallway. I could hear the muffled applause from inside, followed by Ronan’s confident, booming voice. “I want to thank my team, especially Lily. Without her, none of this would have been possible.” I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets. I turned and walked toward the elevator. That was the last delivery I would ever make for him. 3 By late afternoon, the sky turned a bruised, ugly gray. Thick storm clouds suffocated the city. I dragged an old cardboard box out from the corner of the studio. I started packing away my life. My coffee mugs, my throw pillows, my half used tubes of acrylic paint. I tossed them into the box one by one. Suddenly, a familiar, agonizing spasm ripped through my stomach. It felt like a jagged knife twisting in my gut. I dropped the tape dispenser, clutching my stomach, and collapsed onto the armrest of the couch. The pain didn’t fade. It crawled up my spine, triggering a cold sweat that instantly soaked my shirt. It was the chronic ulcer flaring up. The permanent souvenir from standing in the freezing snow six years ago. The doctor had warned me. No physical exhaustion. No severe emotional stress. I pulled out my phone with shaking hands and called Ronan. It rang forever before he finally answered. The background noise was deafening. Club music and the clinking of glasses. “Yeah?” Ronan shouted into the phone. “Ronan, my ulcer is flaring up.” I gritted my teeth, forcing my voice to stay level. “It is bad. Can you come home and take me to the ER?” The line went quiet for a second. “Your ulcer?” It sounded like he had stepped into a quieter hallway. “Why is it acting up now? Did you take your meds?” “I took them. They aren’t working. I can’t even stand up.” “Hold on a second.” He covered the microphone, but I could still hear Lily’s voice bleeding through. “Ronan! The investors are asking about your availability next month. Get in here and take a shot!” Ronan’s voice returned to the line. “Megan, the party is just peaking. All the VIPs are here.” “Can you just call an Uber and go to the ER yourself? I will come find you as soon as I wrap up here.” Go by yourself. Through the blinding pain, I actually let out a weak laugh. “Ronan, I am in so much pain I can’t even walk to the lobby.” “Don’t you have those prescription painkillers? Just pop two and tough it out.” A sliver of annoyance crept into his voice. “Megan, I really can’t leave right now. This is the turning point of my entire career. Can you just be understanding for once?” Understanding. I always had to be understanding. I had to understand when he was broke. I had to understand when he neglected me. I had to understand why he needed a “partner.” “Okay.” I said softly. Beep. Beep. Beep. He had already hung up. I closed my eyes and tossed the phone onto the rug. Gripping the edge of the couch, I forced myself to stand. Inch by inch, I dragged my body to the front door and shoved my feet into my boots. The rain was pouring in sheets by the time I made it to the lobby. There were no cabs on the street. The Uber queue was fifty people deep. I stood under the awning for ten minutes. The freezing wind sliced right through my thin jacket. The cramps were so violent I dropped to my knees on the wet concrete. Headlights cut through the rain. A black Land Rover turned into the driveway, its hazard lights flashing. It was Ronan’s car. For a split second, I thought he actually had a conscience. I thought he came back for me. I braced myself against the pillar to stand up. The driver’s side window rolled down. It wasn’t Ronan. It was Lily. She was wearing that oversized Arc’teryx jacket, leaning her head out into the rain. “Megan?” She looked down at me crouching in the storm, her eyes wide with fake shock. “What are you doing sitting out here? Didn’t Ronan say you were sick in bed?” I stared at her. “Why are you driving his car?” “Oh, Ronan had a few drinks. He couldn’t drive.” She patted the leather steering wheel. “I am sober, so he told me to take his baby for a spin. I just came back to grab something.” “Grab what?” “Ronan left a specific lens cap on his desk. He said he needs it for the afterparty, so he sent me to fetch it.” A lens cap. I was sweating through my clothes in agony, stranded in a storm. And he sent her to drive his prized car back to our apartment… for a piece of plastic. “Megan, do you need a ride to the hospital? But Ronan told me to hurry back. They are all waiting for me.” Lily bit her lip, performing a perfect mask of hesitation. “Do you mind waiting for a cab?” I didn’t say a word. Holding onto the concrete pillar, I slowly pulled myself up until I was standing straight. “Don’t bother.” I turned my back on her and walked straight into the downpour. The freezing rain battered my face, but the icy shock somehow dulled the twisting fire in my stomach. I walked out to the main avenue and flagged down a taxi that had just dropped someone off. “City General ER,” I told the driver. I didn’t look back at the Land Rover. The emergency room was a chaotic nightmare. I registered alone. I got my blood drawn alone. I sat in a plastic chair in the corner of the IV room alone. The harsh fluorescent lights burned my eyes. I watched the clear medicine drip into my vein, drop by drop. I pulled out my phone. No texts from Ronan. Nothing. Just a single voice memo from Sloane. “Megan, are you okay? Have you seen the video Lily just posted?” I opened Instagram. Ten minutes ago, Lily had updated her story. It was a five second clip. In the video, Ronan was sitting on a plush leather VIP couch in a club, looking at his phone. Lily’s voice giggled from behind the camera. “Ronan, you lost! Truth or dare?” Ronan looked up, flashing a helpless, charming smile. “Dare.” “Perfect.” Lily’s voice was dripping with sugar. “I dare you to let me drive your car to the shoot tomorrow.” Ronan’s Land Rover was his baby. He took out a massive loan to buy it two years ago. He was obsessive about it. He never let anyone touch the steering wheel. When I got my license, I asked him to teach me how to drive it. He had said: “Your spatial awareness is terrible. The clearance is too high. If you scratch it, the paint job costs a fortune.” In the video. Ronan tossed his keys onto the glass table. “Fine. It is yours.” His tone was completely indulgent. He didn’t hesitate for a second. I closed the app. The pain in my stomach had officially gone completely numb. Drip. Drip. Drip. By the time the two IV bags were empty, it was 3 AM. The rain had stopped. I walked out of the hospital into the dead, empty streets. I took a cab back to the apartment. I pushed the door open. The living room was pitch black. Ronan hadn’t come home. The guest room door was slightly open. It was empty too. They had gone out to celebrate. They pulled an all nighter. I flipped on the lights. I walked over to the coffee table and swept the bottle of prescription painkillers directly into the trash can. Then I walked into the bedroom and pulled out the suitcase I had started packing earlier. I moved with clinical precision. My toothbrush and towel from the bathroom. My autumn sweaters from the closet. My charging cables from the nightstand. This apartment was suffocatingly full of his presence. The physical space I occupied was pathetic. It took exactly one suitcase and two garment bags to pack up six years of my life. I rolled the suitcase to the entryway. I glanced at the paper calendar hanging on the wall. Today was May 27th. The day after tomorrow was May 29th. Not only was it the day my flight left for Banff. It was also the exact date of my six year anniversary with Ronan. 4 May 29th. Two in the afternoon. I shoved my final jacket into my suitcase and zipped it up. Right on cue, the delivery driver knocked on the door. I had ordered a tiny, artisanal strawberry cake. Ronan hated sweets. Every anniversary before this, I always ordered a small cake meant for two. This year, I ordered a cake meant for one. I set the cake on the dining table and unboxed it. I placed a single candle on top. I didn’t light it. The sound of a key turning in the lock echoed through the apartment. The door burst open. Ronan practically sprinted inside. He didn’t even bother taking his muddy boots off, tracking dirt across the hardwood floor. He made a beeline for his gear cabinet. “Lily is waiting in the car downstairs. I don’t have time to change.” He spoke rapidly, aggressively shoving telephoto lenses into his camera bag. “What is the rush?” I sat at the dining table, watching his chaotic back. “What happened?” “Huge news.” Ronan’s voice was buzzing with adrenaline. “One of Lily’s contacts in the forestry service found fresh footprints of a ghost puma in the northern ranges.” “Do you know how insane that is? Nobody has photographed a big cat in that sector in a decade!” “We have to leave right this second to beat the National Geographic crews to the location.” He yanked the zipper shut and slung the heavy bag over his shoulder. “How long will you be gone?” I asked. “Hard to say. Two weeks, maybe a month. Wildlife doesn’t run on a schedule.” He spun around, ready to bolt out the door. His eyes swept past the dining table. He saw the tiny strawberry cake. He saw me sitting quietly in front of it. He froze. His boots stopped moving. “What is today?” His brows knitted together, his brain desperately scrambling for context. I just looked at him. I didn’t say a word. Several agonizing seconds passed. A look of profound guilt washed over his face. “Today… is our six year anniversary?” He finally remembered. “Megan, I am so sorry.” He walked over, resting his hands on the edge of the dining table. “This tip was completely unexpected. I cannot lose this shot.” “When I get back, I promise I will make it up to you.” “What do you want? A designer bag? That diamond necklace you were looking at last month? I will buy whatever you want when I get home.” He always used money to patch over his emotional absence. Even though he wasn’t exactly rich, he genuinely believed throwing a credit card at a problem erased the damage. “No need.” I stood up. I picked up the cake knife. I sliced the strawberry cake perfectly in half. “You can go.” Ronan let out a visible sigh of relief. “Megan, I knew you would understand.” He stepped around the table, reaching his arms out to pull me into a hug. I shifted my weight and stepped cleanly out of his reach. His arms hung awkwardly in the empty air. He slowly lowered them. “Are you still mad I didn’t pick you up from the ER?” He let out a heavy sigh. “I told you, I had too much to drink. I couldn’t drive. Lily was just doing me a favor grabbing my gear.” “Stop looking at her like she is the enemy. She is basically one of the guys.” Honk. Honk. The aggressive blare of a car horn echoed from the street below. Lily was getting impatient. “Ronan! Hustle up! If we don’t leave now we won’t make it to the trailhead before sunset!” Her voice pierced right through the window glass. Ronan instantly straightened his posture. “I really have to go.” He walked to the entryway and pushed the door open. He looked back at me one last time. “Take care of yourself. Don’t forget your ulcer meds.” “Bye.” The door slammed shut. The impact made my coffee mug rattle against the table. I walked over to the window and pulled back the curtain. The black Land Rover was idling by the curb. Ronan tossed his heavy bag into the backseat and climbed into the passenger side. Lily was in the driver’s seat. She leaned over the center console, intimately grabbing the seatbelt to buckle him in. They shared a bright, excited smile before the engine roared, and the car sped out of the complex. I watched the taillights disappear around the corner. I walked back to the dining table. I picked up a fork and took a bite of the strawberry cake. It was sweet. Sickeningly, artificially sweet. I picked up the plate, walked over to the trash can, and dumped the rest of the cake inside. I walked to the entryway. I took the silver apartment key off my keychain—the key I had used for six years—and placed it gently on top of the shoe cabinet. Then I grabbed the handles of my two suitcases. I walked out. I pulled the door shut until it clicked and locked tight. At four in the afternoon, I arrived at the airport. Check in. Security. The departure gate. I moved through every step with absolute, terrifying calm. The PA system chimed, announcing the final boarding call for my flight to Calgary. I unlocked my phone and opened my text thread with Ronan. The last message on the screen was the one I sent in the pouring rain two days ago: “I am at the side door.” I tapped the settings icon in the top right corner. Scroll to the bottom. Delete Contact. The second my thumb hit the red confirmation button, it was over. Six years of history, completely wiped clean. I grabbed my suitcase handle and walked down the jet bridge. His Land Rover was speeding toward the forest. My plane was taking off for the snow capped peaks.

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1 When the boss’s wife called for the ninety-ninth time, she didn’t ask what time he would be home. She only said one sentence: “Please tell Joe he needs to come home today.” My hand on the mouse froze. For the first twenty-six calls, her question was always, “What time will Mr. West be home tonight?” Back then, I always had a ready excuse for him. The brand ambassador, Miss Avery, had a sudden stomachache, and he had to drive her to the ER. The client, Ms. Albright, had one too many drinks, so he was escorting her back to her hotel. His old college classmate, Brooke, had just returned to the country and was unfamiliar with the city, so he was helping her look at apartments. Then, starting from the twenty-seventh call, her question simplified: “Is he coming home tonight at all?” And this time, the perfect excuse was right on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it. It felt like she didn’t need his excuses anymore. When I passed the message to Joe, he didn’t even look up from his desk. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll buy her something nice in a few days when I have a free minute. She’ll get over it.” I opened my mouth, the words hovering in my throat, but ultimately, I swallowed them down. I had worked as Joe West’s executive assistant for five years, managing hundreds of corporate public relations disasters. But in that quiet office, a sudden, heavy realization hit me. This marriage was heading toward a cliff, and no amount of PR could save it. … “Mr. West, about your wife…” “I know,” Joe interrupted, his tone even, carrying a touch of weary indulgence. “Vivian isn’t unreasonable. She just wants attention. Order a designer bag and have it sent over. Tell her I really can’t get away tonight.” The heavy mahogany door of the executive suite swung open. Brooke walked in, clutching a stack of files from the marketing department. She had recently returned from Europe, and Joe had personally bypassed HR to slot her into the company. Today, she wore an oversized white button-down, the top few buttons casually undone, projecting an effortless, borderline provocative charm. “Joe, save me,” she groaned. “The brand preview is tonight, and if you aren’t there, the team is going to eat me alive.” Joe looked up, his gaze lingering on her for a fraction of a second. “You’re wearing that?” Brooke looked down at herself and laughed, waving a hand. “It’s called effortless chic. Since when do you care about my outfit?” I lowered my eyes, focusing on my tablet. “Mr. West, you have the video conference with the European investors at eight.” Brooke immediately threw her hands up. “Fine, forget it. I’ll go alone. It’s not like anyone in marketing actually respects me anyway.” Joe was silent for two seconds. Then he shut his laptop. “Push the conference to tomorrow morning.” My fingers paused over the screen. “The marketing preview is critical tonight,” Joe justified. Brooke’s eyes lit up. She practically threw herself forward, her shoulder bumping against his chest. I stood by, quietly shifting my gaze away. “You are a lifesaver!” she squealed. She claimed they were just buddies, but her fingers remained wrapped around his sleeve, refusing to let go. Joe looked down at her hand, a helpless, fond smile gracing his lips. “Still as impatient as ever.” He turned to me. “Lynn, head over to the house. Go to the walk-in closet and bring back that champagne silk gown.” I froze. That gown had arrived from Paris just last month. It was a custom piece Vivian had spent three years designing. She hadn’t even had the chance to wear it once. Joe glanced at Brooke’s micro-hemline. “There will be press tonight. It’s not appropriate for you to go looking like that. Borrow Vivian’s dress for the evening.” Brooke waved her hands half-heartedly. “Oh, come on. That’s your wife’s dress. It feels wrong for me to wear it.” She said it felt wrong, but her eyes were practically shining with greed. Joe’s voice remained smooth and untroubled. “It’s just for one night. Vivian is sensible. She won’t mind.” I couldn’t hold back anymore. “Mr. West, perhaps it would be better if you went back to get it yourself. Your wife did ask you to come home today.” That was the absolute limit of what I could say as his assistant. Any further, and I would be crossing the line into taking sides. And after all, Joe was the one signing my paychecks. Joe looked up at me, his eyes cool. “Not tonight. You go get it. And tell her I’ll come home to make it up to her as soon as I’m done here.” Half an hour later, I arrived at the West estate. Vivian was wearing a simple, muted knit sweater, her hair loosely swept up in a clip. “Ma’am, Mr. West asked me to retrieve a specific gown,” I said softly. Vivian didn’t ask a single question. She simply stepped aside to let me in. “It’s in the main closet. Go ahead.” As I slipped off my shoes and walked into the foyer, my eyes caught two large, packed suitcases sitting by the door. The photo wall was half-empty. The colorful sticky notes on the refrigerator, once filled with sweet reminders she wrote for Joe, were entirely gone. “Are you going on a trip, ma’am?” Vivian kept her head down, quietly taping up a cardboard box. “Just staying somewhere else for a few days,” she replied, her voice flat. I entered the closet to fetch the gown. To my surprise, almost all of Vivian’s personal clothes were gone. She walked in behind me, gently helping me pull the protective garment bag over the champagne silk. When her fingers brushed against the hem, they lingered. Just for a heartbeat, but I saw it. “Mr. West said he’ll have it sent back immediately after the event,” I offered, trying to fill the heavy silence. “No need,” she said, looking up with entirely vacant eyes. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” I stood there, suddenly remembering how she used to be when I first joined the company. Back then, Vivian was full of life. She wore bright, vibrant dresses, brought artisanal coffee to the office for the staff, and told me with a bright laugh, “Joe might look cold on the outside, but he has the softest heart.” Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, the color began to drain from her. She stopped bringing treats to the office. She stopped smiling. Noticing my blank stare, Vivian let out a soft sigh. “I won’t be wearing it anyway,” she murmured. When I delivered the gown to the venue, Brooke was finishing her makeup. “You actually got it? Your wife won’t be furious, will she?” Joe glanced at her, his voice indifferent. “She’s not that petty.” She’s just past the point of caring, I added silently in my mind. That night, Joe was like a peacock in full display. On his left arm clung Brooke, whispering how nervous she was about her first big marketing event, her palms sweating. On his right was a young, rising influencer, holding up her phone and batting her eyelashes. Further out were two female corporate partners, including Ms. Albright. Throughout the evening, those women seemed to have only two goals. First, to find any excuse to press closer to Joe. Second, to boss me around. “Assistant Lynn, could you grab me some warm water?” “Lynn, check this photo for me. Does my face look too wide?” Their tones were completely casual, treating me like a personal maid rather than the executive assistant of a multi-million dollar corporation. Joe stood at the center of it all, charismatic, attentive, and perfectly chivalrous. But the longer I watched, the more a knot tightened in my stomach. I had seen how he treated Vivian. He wasn’t overtly cruel… he was just so dismissive of her, taking her presence entirely for granted. The brand promotional video began playing on the big screen. Brooke was called backstage to finalize some scheduling details. The moment she left, the young influencer slid closer to Joe, holding a glass of champagne. “Mr. West, I think my strap broke…” Her voice was pure sugar, and her TikTok livestream was still running. Joe glanced down. Deciding it was a harmless gesture, he reached out and casually adjusted the thin silk strap back onto her shoulder. The influencer immediately leaned into him with a coy smile. “You’re so sweet, Mr. West.” The live chat exploded instantly. “Oh my god, is this a real-life billionaire romance?” “The way he looked down at her… I’m melting.” “He looks so protective!” I wanted to step in and warn him, but I kept my mouth shut. I was just an assistant, after all. Then, as I monitored the screen, my heart dropped. Among the sea of cheering comments, I spotted a very familiar profile picture. It was Vivian. She had left a single comment: “Congratulations. I hope you’ll be very happy together.” The words were quickly buried under the avalanche of heart emojis and shipping comments, but I saw them clearly. The tablet in my hands suddenly felt heavy as lead. I hurried over to Joe and whispered, “Mr. West, your wife is watching the livestream.” Joe was looking down at the influencer’s phone. He froze slightly at my words. “She just left a comment,” I added. The influencer’s smile stiffened for a second before she quickly put on an innocent face. “Oh? Is your wife watching? Did I make things awkward for you, Mr. West?” Her camera was still rolling, and the chat was going wild. “The real wife is watching?” “Oh damn, the drama is real!” “But they look so good together anyway.” Joe pinched the bridge of his nose, looking slightly annoyed. “She’s overthinking again.” The influencer murmured, “Should I go online and clarify?” Joe glanced at her. “No need. I’ll deal with her when I get home.” He spoke as if this public display of intimacy was just a product of Vivian’s oversensitivity. I looked at him, desperately wanting to ask: Do you really think you still have a home to go back to? But an assistant doesn’t ask those kinds of questions. The influencer blinked. “Are you going to go home and apologize to her now?” Joe hesitated. Just then, Brooke returned from backstage, lifting the hem of the champagne gown. “Joe, can I get a ride with you later?” Joe looked at her. “I’ll drop you off first.” I pulled out my phone and clicked on Vivian’s profile. Checking on the boss’s wife technically fell within my job description… or at least, that’s what I told myself to quiet my racing heart. My fingers trembled as I typed: Ma’am, do you need Mr. West to come home tonight? If so, I will remind him right away. The message sat there unanswered for a long time. Long enough for the valet to bring the cars around. Long enough for Brooke to slide into the passenger seat of Joe’s car and wave goodbye to me through the window. Finally, my phone buzzed. No need. He’s not coming back. I left some things in the foyer. Please hand them to him tomorrow. I didn’t get home until one in the morning. Before I could even slip off my heels, my phone went off like a bomb. My group chats were flooded with notifications. “Is your boss seriously dating that influencer girl?” “I thought he was sleeping with that Brooke girl from college?” “Is working at your office like living inside a drama series?” I was too exhausted to even wash my face. I wanted nothing more than to toss my phone into the washing machine. It felt like the entire city had more energy than me, especially when it came to gossiping about my boss’s love life. Just as I was about to power down the device, my best friend sent me a link. “The Mystery of the West Empire’s Silent Wife: Why does a woman who doesn’t work, has no children, and offers zero emotional support get to keep her ring?” I clicked on it, a cold smirk forming on my lips as I read. The anonymous source claimed Vivian was an insecure housewife who spent her days tracking Joe’s location and throwing tantrums. It painted Joe as a saint who only stayed in the marriage out of a profound sense of duty, surrounded by brilliant, successful women. The final line was a knife: “Only a woman who can build an empire with him deserves to stand by his side.” I nearly laughed out loud in my dark apartment. Build an empire with him? Joe’s very first round of seed funding had come directly from Vivian’s family trust. His first major clients were personally introduced to him by Vivian’s father. On the original draft of the company’s business plan, Vivian’s name was printed right beneath Joe’s. When I first started, the older employees used to whisper about how Vivian had pulled three consecutive all-nighters to rewrite a financial model, single-handedly saving a crucial project that investors were about to reject. Then, her visits to the office grew sparse. Some said she was in poor health and trying to conceive. Others said Joe cherished her too much to let her work so hard. Just last year, when Vivian expressed a desire to return and manage the marketing line, I happened to walk into the executive suite with some documents. I saw Joe holding her hands, his voice incredibly tender. “Just focus on resting and getting healthy at home, darling. Let me handle the stress of the company.” At the time, I thought he was the ultimate devoted husband. Now, I realized he was just systematically pushing her out of her own creation. The most twisted part was that whenever the firm faced a liquidity crisis or needed the influence of the Jiang family, Joe’s visits home would miraculously spike. Flowers, diamonds, private rooftop dining… I had to draft three different romantic itineraries a day. During those brief periods, he spoke to her with such sickening sweetness that I almost believed he had changed. By ten the next morning, the gossip article had reached the top of the local trending boards. I placed my tablet in front of Joe. “Mr. West, the internet is ripping your wife apart. Should we have the PR team issue a statement?” Joe glanced at the screen, a brief frown crossing his forehead. “Not yet.” I blinked, stunned. He took a slow sip of his espresso. “Brooke’s marketing event just gained traction. If we bury the news now, all her hard work goes to waste. I’ll explain it to Vivian later. She’ll understand.” Always that phrase. She’ll understand. I stood there, feeling a profound sense of disgust. Brooke got her spotlight. The influencer got her followers. Joe got to look like the charming, untouchable bachelor. And Vivian was left to be publicly humiliated by strangers. At ten-thirty, I went to the West house. The suitcases were gone. The remaining frames on the photo wall had been taken down. The house felt like a tomb. Vivian was gone. On the console table in the foyer lay a thick manila envelope, held down by a small sticky note. Lynn, please give this to Joe. As I picked up the envelope, the unsealed flap slipped, revealing a glimpse of white parchment inside. Divorce papers. Standing in that silent, empty house, I remembered Joe’s words from the night before. She’ll understand. But this time, Vivian wasn’t planning on understanding anything ever again. When I placed the envelope on Joe’s desk, he was busy reviewing the traffic metrics from Brooke’s event. He tapped his fingers on the mahogany wood. “Brooke did an exceptional job with this.” I slid the envelope toward him. “Mr. West, your wife asked me to deliver this to you.” He opened it, and his eyes fell upon the divorce petition. He actually laughed. “She even hired a lawyer?” His tone wasn’t panicked; it was merely amused, like a parent dealing with a toddler’s tantrum. “She’s trying to make me chase her.” I hesitated, but the silence broke my resolve. “Mr. West… when she asked you to come home yesterday, I think this is what she wanted to discuss.” Joe slid the papers back into the envelope. “If she really wanted a divorce, she wouldn’t have used you as a courier. She would have faced me herself. She’s just waiting for me to apologize.” His phone rang. It was Ms. Albright. Her voice was dripping with sarcasm through the speaker. “You’ve been quite popular in the tabloids lately, Mr. West. With Miss Brooke running your marketing, I suppose you don’t need us old partners anymore?” After hanging up, Joe looked at me. “Book a dinner with Ms. Albright tonight.” I paused. “Sir, perhaps you should address the situation with your wife and the media first.” Even as I said it, I wanted to laugh at my own foolishness. Address it first. In Joe’s world, Vivian was always the last priority. The last to be explained to. The last to be handled. He looked up, a flash of annoyance in his usually calm eyes. “We cannot afford to lose Ms. Albright’s distribution channels. I will deal with Vivian tonight when I go home. Just do your job, Lynn.” I lowered my eyes. “Yes, sir.” The dinner was set at an exclusive private dining club. The moment we arrived, I knew something was wrong. Ms. Albright had arrived early and insisted on a table right next to the floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, a black SUV sat with its engine idling, and two people in the corner of the courtyard were holding up their phones, lenses pointed directly at us. I leaned in close to Joe. “There are paparazzi outside.” Joe frowned. “Lynn, don’t be paranoid.” Ms. Albright sipped her wine, offering a cold smile. “Your assistant certainly likes to hover, Mr. West. If I didn’t know better, I’d think we were doing something scandalous.” I swallowed my pride but pressed on. “Ms. Albright, Mr. West was just trending in the tabloids last night. Any photos of the two of you tonight will be twisted into a new narrative.” Ms. Albright’s face went cold. “Mr. West, your assistant is capable, but her lack of discretion is going to cause trouble eventually.” Joe set his glass down. “Ms. Albright,” his voice was quiet, but it carried an icy edge, “Lynn has been with me for five years. I know exactly how she works, and I trust her judgment.” I stood beside him, my feelings suddenly a tangled mess. Joe wasn’t a monster. He was fiercely protective of his staff, fair, and incredibly generous to those who worked for him. That was why I had held out hope for his marriage for so long. But it was incredibly tragic that a man who could draw such clear, solid boundaries for his employees could treat his own wife’s dignity as entirely expendable. Ms. Albright sneered. “Is this defensive attitude your directive, Mr. West, or is she acting on her own?” I scoffed inwardly. If we don’t protect his image, the tabloids will claim you’re pregnant with his child by tomorrow morning. After the agonizing dinner concluded, Joe tried calling Vivian. First call: no answer. Second call: declined. Third call: went straight to voicemail. His expression finally darkened. “She’s still playing games?” I said softly, “I don’t think she’s playing, sir.” Joe shot me a warning glance, and I fell silent. After a long pause, he picked up his coat. “Let’s go home. Order some white roses, buy a necklace, and pick up some dessert from that boutique she likes.” I checked my records. “Mr. West, that dessert boutique closed down permanently.” “Then what else does she like?” I couldn’t answer. It wasn’t because I was bad at my job. It was because over the last few years, my memory had been filled with Brooke’s dietary restrictions, the influencer’s favorite brands, and Ms. Albright’s wine preferences. Vivian had simply never been on my list of tasks. Joe fell silent for several seconds. Finally, he draped his coat over his arm, maintaining his usual mask of indifference. “Forget it. I’ll ask her myself.” He dismissed me for the night. But the moment I unlocked my apartment door, my phone rang. It was Joe. As soon as I answered, the sound of his ragged, frantic breathing filled the receiver. “Lynn… get to the house. Now. Find out where Vivian went.”

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1 Late at night, after I let out a satisfied sigh, Dante Vale finally rolled gently off me. He had been unusually attentive lately. I figured he was probably about to leave me. I sighed quietly, turned over, and went to sleep. After all, everyone knew. I was the most useless kind of woman in love. When the sky wants to rain and a man wants to leave, what can I do? Beg bitterly? Cry, scream, threaten to die? That was what a real lovesick fool would do. But I was fake. A long time ago, I understood one truth. Everyone despised a woman who lost her head over love. Pretending to be one, however, was advanced strategy. At 5:30 in the afternoon, I shut down my computer and got off work on time. Behind me came the confused voice of a new coworker. “Didn’t they just announce an all-hands meeting? She’s leaving just like that?” “She’s different,” an older coworker said meaningfully. “Different how?” “If she gets home late, her husband hits her.” The new coworker sucked in a sharp breath. “Then why doesn’t she divorce him?” “Shh.” The older coworker lowered her voice. “She’s one of those women who can’t live without love.” A wave of helpless, sympathetic sighs filled the office. I strode toward the door, unable to suppress the corners of my mouth. Overtime? Absolutely not. I was not actually hopelessly lovesick. I only pretended to be. And I enjoyed every convenience it brought with a clear conscience. At the company, my persona was that of a poor woman who had to clock out on time to go home and cook. If I was even a little late, my “drunk, bad-tempered” husband would hit me. Whenever people mentioned me, they shook their heads and sighed, their voices full of anger at my lack of spine and pity for my suffering. Thanks to that persona, I was very popular at work. After all, I brought gossip and conversation to a dull office. I gave everyone’s fragmented sympathy and kindness somewhere to go. In a way, I provided excellent stress relief and emotional value. And unnecessary overtime, business trips, and social dinners automatically skipped me. The cafeteria lady always gave me half a portion more braised pork than others. Even my managers spoke to me gently, afraid of triggering my “psychological trauma.” What did I pay in return? A few hesitant lowered gazes. A pair of reddened eyes, full of unspeakable grievance. A few tears that came whenever I needed them. The return on investment beat every financial product on the market. Of course, maintaining a persona required a certain level of mental discipline. Once, Ms. Keller from the executive office complained to me about her boyfriend. I almost blurted out, “Use guilt to control him.” At the last second, I changed it to, “Maybe you didn’t do enough? You should be more understanding of him.” Ms. Keller glared at me like she wanted to shake some sense into me. I lowered my head in shame and slapped myself internally. Too close. Rule One of pretending to be lovesick: keep the acting steady and the character contained. If you hold it in, you’re a harmless little bunny. If you don’t, you become a scheming snake. At six sharp, I stepped through my front door. Dante had his back to me in the kitchen. He was shirtless, a loose apron tied around his waist, showing broad shoulders and a narrow waist. The muscles of his back shifted with every movement. Sunset spilled through the window, softening him like a filter. I leaned against the doorframe and admired the view happily. Then I wrapped my arms around his waist, pressed my cheek to his back, and adjusted my voice to its sweetest setting. “Darling, you work so hard. You cook for me every day. It makes my heart ache.” Dante turned his head to look at me. A smile rose in those naturally melancholy eyes. “I made your favorite sweet and sour ribs. Go wash your hands.” My eyes curved into two little crescents as I looked up and smiled. “Okay.” I had a soft, round little face. I knew I looked adorable when I smiled like that. And I knew he liked it. Of course. Dante had no idea that I had turned him into an abusive husband in the eyes of my company. And my coworkers had no idea I wasn’t even married. What did it matter? They would never meet anyway. This was the power of information gaps. That night, I was lying in bed watching a show when a firm chest silently pressed against my back. His breathing was heavy as he nibbled my earlobe. Before long, I had no idea what heaven or earth was anymore. I was floating somewhere above the clouds. Recently, Dante had been trying far too hard in bed. His sense of service was almost absurd. But whenever his dark, emotional eyes looked at me, there was always something complicated in them. Guilt, maybe. Or reluctance. After I sighed in satisfaction, Dante got up gently, wrung out a warm towel, and cleaned me with careful, focused movements. I sighed inside. Dante was probably going to leave. Two years ago, I met him while running by the river at night. He was sitting alone on the railing, staring at the water. I thought he was about to jump, so I rushed over and hooked him off the railing with one arm. “The world is beautiful, handsome. Don’t give up.” He got up from the ground and looked at me. The wind lifted the hair on his forehead, revealing an outrageously beautiful face. I froze. Expressionless, he said three things. “I was enjoying the wind.” “Take your hand off my waist.” “And my ankle is injured. Because of you.” He said he had nowhere to go, so I had no choice but to “reluctantly” take him home to recover. That recovery lasted two years. At first, he was silent, distant, and indifferent. Later, he reluctantly spoke a few sentences. Then came soft whispers and tangled intimacy. Now, he handled all the housework. All of this came from my daily sweet talk, top-tier emotional support, and acting skills polished to perfection. You could say he had been cultivated pretty well. But not long ago, I accidentally learned that Dante’s real identity was that of a super-rich heir. He had run away from home for two years because of family conflict. That day, through the glass, I saw his face turn so cold it was almost unfamiliar as he spoke into the phone. “Don’t worry. I’ll go back for the arranged marriage.” “Her? I’m just casually dating her. I can break up anytime.” “No need for you to intervene. She’s a hopeless romantic. If I say it directly, she’ll make a fuss. I’ll just leave quietly.” I walked three laps around the residential complex in silence. Before I finished the third lap, I had already figured it out. The gap between our backgrounds was too wide. Dante and I were not possible. Our feelings were not deep enough for either of us to fight the world. If I were truly lovesick, maybe I would beg, cry, and threaten to die so he wouldn’t leave. But I was fake. Adults should leave with dignity. Part peacefully. Keep the door open. If I fell on hard times later, maybe I could still rely on our old affection and ask him for a favor. Once I figured that out, I went upstairs, opened the door, and sweetly called him darling. See? This was the advantage of pretending to be lovesick. Even when abandoned, I could stay intact, keep my heart and lungs in place, and deal with the matter rationally. As for Dante. After two years together, he probably felt some guilt. These days, he had been finding every way to be good to me, cooking different dishes for me, and making sure I was satisfied in bed. I knew this was his way of saying goodbye. I accepted every bit of it and enjoyed the premium service brought by his guilt with a clear conscience. Rule Two of pretending to be lovesick: Never fight someone else’s guilt. I took two days of annual leave. By day, we curled up on the sofa and watched movies. By night, we tangled together and whispered sweet words. Even if separation was inevitable, I wanted to leave myself a beautiful memory. On the third day, I returned to work. My coworkers told me a piece of news in excited fragments. Mr. Grant had been dismissed for accepting bribes, and headquarters had parachuted in a new boss. Mr. Grant loved calling meetings right before closing time. Now that he was gone, everyone was thrilled. That afternoon, Ms. Keller sent a message in the group chat saying the new boss was treating everyone to a seafood feast tonight. Eight hundred and eighty-eight per person. The group filled with kneeling emojis and “thank you, boss.” I struggled internally for a long time. Then gave up. I could not ruin the persona over temporary appetite. The character had to stay steady. Steady meant victory. The next day, I was called to the general manager’s office. The young boss sat behind the desk in a crisp suit, his face cool and refined, flipping through a file Ms. Keller had given him. When I entered, he did not lift his head. He spoke lightly. “You were the only one who didn’t attend last night’s dinner. Any reason?” I pressed my lips together and slowly lowered my head. Two seconds of silence. Sure enough, Ms. Keller spoke up for me. “Mr. Price, her husband has a bad temper and controls her strictly. I mentioned it briefly before…” “A bad temper?” Across from me came a very soft chuckle. “What, does he hit her too?” I raised my head, prepared to show my familiar pale, resigned smile. Then I suddenly narrowed my eyes and hesitated. “I think I’ve seen you somewhere…” Ms. Keller jabbed my lower back with one finger. “Ivy Hart, this is not the time to network.” I stared at the young man across from me. He sat back in the leather chair with one leg crossed over the other, lips lightly pressed, head slightly tilted. His expression was almost a smile but not quite. That expression. “Rowan Price? Chubby Rowan?” I blurted it out. The corner of Rowan’s mouth twitched. With a mocking expression, he spoke slowly. “So you’re saying Ivy Hart, the class monitor who once chased boys around the schoolyard with a pointer, is now a lovesick doormat who gets hit by her husband if she gets home late?” My heart sank. It was over. Back then, my nickname was Ivy the Tyrant. I had been entrusted by our homeroom teacher with the glorious duty of managing all the unruly boys in class, and I had been very arrogant about it. The Rowan Price before me had been one of the boys I hit the hardest. Not only because he was fat and ran slowly, but also because he had a sharp mouth. Every time I pinned him to the ground, he would still crane his neck and shout, “Ivy Hart, you’ll never get married in this life,” or, “Don’t come begging me to marry you later.” Who would have thought boys changed this much? That chubby kid had transformed into a tall, handsome rising executive. Even his once-grating voice had become a low baritone. I adjusted quickly. Surprise, regret, nostalgia, then red eyes. Finally, a self-mocking smile. “That’s all in the past. We were young then. I can only say… well, everyone meets their match.” Rowan folded his arms and said nothing. A sarcastic curve hung on his mouth. His face clearly said: Do you think I’m stupid? After I left the general manager’s office, Ms. Keller looked at me with a complicated expression. “Ivy, are you doomed?” Ms. Keller was right. A person close to leadership was close to leadership for a reason. Her judgment was sharp. For the next period of time, Rowan went insane. He targeted me everywhere. Matters that could have been synced by email had to be reported verbally in his office. I had never done fieldwork, yet he made me accompany him to inspect factory lines. I was in planning, yet he named me to take meeting minutes. My workload suddenly multiplied several times. Finally, I couldn’t help it. “Don’t you have a secretary?” He lazily spun a pen without even lifting his eyelids. “She’s busy. Don’t you have a secretarial certificate? Did you take it for decoration?” I ground my back teeth while screaming internally. This was clearly revenge. Personal revenge dressed up as work. So petty. What, I hit him a few times when we were young? What mischievous chubby boy hadn’t been beaten by a class monitor in childhood? Most infuriating of all was that his tongue had become even sharper than before. His words were cutting, always stabbing right into my lungs. Several times, he left me speechless and nearly exploding. I knew he wanted to provoke me on purpose. Of course, I couldn’t let him succeed. How could I let the persona I had worked so hard to build collapse? So I gritted my teeth and swallowed it all. In front of him, I was always obedient, tolerant, and pitiful. And he merely tilted his head and looked at me with that faint smile, as if saying: Act. Keep acting. Fortunately, when I went home, I had Dante. That day, Rowan called me into his office again to revise a proposal. I got home forty minutes late. When I opened the door, steak, red wine, and flowers were already on the table. Dante wore a formal white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, exposing firm lines. In the candlelight, he smiled at me. “Ivy, happy second anniversary.” “Darling.” I flew toward him like a little bird and wrapped my legs around his waist. He caught me steadily. That night. At the moment my eyes lost focus, Dante suddenly gripped my wrists. His strength was startling. “Ivy.” “Mm…” “If one day I suddenly leave, what will you do?” He stopped there. His breathing went abruptly light. Caught in that unbearable, unfinished tension, I blurted out, “I’ll wait for you forever.” Dante stared at me. His eyes were bright in the dark, like two flames. Then he lowered his head and pressed his lips to my ear, sighing with something like relief. “It doesn’t have to be that long…” That night, he was almost wild. As if he had become someone else. The next day at work, my waist and legs were so sore I almost couldn’t straighten up. I kept hissing under my breath. The coworker beside me asked carefully, “Did your husband, uh, drink again last night?” I pulled at the corner of my mouth. “He did drink a little.” This drew a wave of sympathetic gazes. My phone buzzed. Dante sent me a message. I need to leave for a while. I don’t know when I’ll return. Take care. I stared at the screen for a few seconds. My suspended heart finally died. I got up and went to the pantry, made a cup of hot coffee, and leaned against the counter in a daze. Dante had returned to his original world. Returned to his arranged marriage. Of course he would not come back. Those words were only meant to pacify me, the “hopeless romantic,” before he left. Ha. Good thing I wasn’t really lovesick. So it wouldn’t hurt that much. I tilted my head back. I didn’t move for a long while. “What are you doing here during work hours, posing like a swan?” A cold voice sounded. I jumped and met Rowan’s eyes. He leaned against the doorway, holding a cup. His gaze was sharp, like a cat that had smelled blood. I casually brushed the corner of my eye with my little finger. He narrowed his eyes at me. “You cried?” “No. Steam got in my eyes.” He scoffed and said sharply, “You’re not deliberately acting pitiful here to make people sympathize with you, are you? Ivy Hart, you can fool everyone else, but you can’t fool…” He suddenly stopped. His gaze landed on my wrist. I looked down. A ring of bruises circled my wrist, stark against my pale skin. Marks from last night.

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1 My husband was the communications officer on an ocean research vessel. And somehow, I could never reach him. Every time he went to sea, he told me the signal was unstable out there. Getting one reply every three to five days was normal. I believed him for two whole years. Until his ex-girlfriend, Isla Brooks, posted screenshot after screenshot of their video calls. In one month, she and Grant Mercer had called thirty-one times. The shortest call was forty minutes. The image was so clear I could see the deck behind him, and the stars hanging over the ocean. I opened our chat history. The longest he had ever taken to reply to me was fourteen days. His answer had been two words. Yeah, okay. After that, I learned. I stopped sitting up at night, staring at my phone, waiting for the screen to light up. I stopped sending paragraphs about how much I missed him. My messages shrank from three lines to one sentence. Stay safe. Then two words. Be safe. Later, just a period. In the end, not even that. When he docked again and came home, he frowned and asked me, “Why haven’t you been messaging me lately?” I smiled. In three days, our divorce hearing would put a final period on this marriage. And he still had no idea. Grant stood in the entryway, his duffel still in one hand. Once, I would have changed the sheets ahead of time, waited at the pier, and even placed his slippers facing outward so he could step into them the moment he came home. Today, I sat at the dining table organizing documents. He looked at the thick stack of papers in front of me and frowned. “Nora. I asked you a question.” I pressed the stapler down. The click sounded light in the quiet room. “How long are you staying this time?” The question caught him off guard. His tone softened a little. “A week. I’m back on board next week. Tomorrow night, the crew’s holding a welcome-back dinner.” For the past two years, every time he docked, he said he was exhausted and fell asleep as soon as he got home. But on Isla’s social media, he had energy to walk along the harbor with her, help her choose filming equipment, and stay on calls with her until dawn. I lowered my head and kept sorting the papers. Grant placed a gift box on the table. “For you. I was at sea on our anniversary last time, so this is to make up for it.” My fingers paused. Inside the box was a shell bracelet. The edges of the shells were rough, and the tag still hung from it. Harbor Gift Shop. Clearance Sale. Before I could speak, my phone vibrated. Isla had posted. In the photo, she stood at the pier, a strand of deep-blue sea pearls around her neck. At the corner of the frame was half of Grant’s sleeve. The caption read: Someone remembered I’m afraid of the dark, so he gave me a piece of the sea. I pushed my phone toward Grant. He glanced at it. His expression changed slightly, then quickly returned to normal. “She needed that pearl necklace for her documentary shoot. She borrowed it temporarily. Yours is more everyday. It suits you.” I nodded. “Isla suits deep-sea pearls. I suit clearance shells.” He seemed unused to this version of me. Just as he was about to speak, his phone rang with a video call. The name on the screen was Isla. Grant answered almost by reflex. On camera, Isla wore a black windbreaker. I recognized it. Grant had bought it before going to sea last year, saying it blocked wind well and was essential on the ship. Her voice was hoarse. “Grant, I think I have a fever. The hotel pharmacy is closed. I’m alone here and kind of scared.” Grant looked at me. In that one glance, there was hesitation. And the apology of someone who had already chosen. “Nora, she just arrived at the port. She doesn’t know anyone here. I’ll take her some medicine and come right back.” I watched him pick up his car keys. “You just got home. We haven’t seen each other in a long time.” He frowned. “Don’t be like this. She’s sick.” After the door closed, the apartment fell silent. I sat at the table, placed the shell bracelet into an evidence bag, and labeled it. Anniversary gift discrepancy. Then I messaged my lawyer, Bennett Cole. Add one more item. Bennett replied quickly. Received. Half an hour later, Isla sent me a photo. Medicine. Hot water. Grant’s hand. Nora, you don’t mind, right? I replied: I don’t mind. After sending it, I plugged in my voice recorder to charge. The next evening, Grant sent me a location. Crew dinner at seven. Don’t be late. My supervisors and colleagues will be there. Save me some face. I looked at the message and put the recorder into my bag. 2 The welcome-back dinner was held at a hotel near the port. When I arrived at the private room, it was already full. Grant wore his uniform. Isla sat beside him, draped in his team jacket, a communications badge pinned to her chest. I had seen that badge before. Before he sailed, I once asked if he could leave me one as a keepsake. He said ship equipment was regulated. Family members couldn’t take it. Now it hung on Isla’s chest like a silently recognized identity. Grant saw me and pointed to the seat near the door. “Sit over there. The main table is for crew members. It’s inconvenient for you to sit here.” Isla looked up and smiled. “Nora’s here. Grant, why don’t you let her sit beside you? I can move.” That was what she said. But she made no move to stand. Grant lowered his voice. “Don’t make a fuss. It’s the same wherever she sits.” I sat near the door and turned on the recorder inside my bag. Not long after the dinner began, people started teasing them. “Isla and Grant are such a perfect team. One films the sea, the other connects the sea.” “When you two were together before, we always said you made a good match.” “Grant really takes care of Isla. No matter how bad the signal gets at sea, Miss Brooks never loses her video calls.” Grant only smiled and said, “Don’t talk nonsense.” He did not look at me. Isla lowered her head. The tips of her ears turned pink, as if someone had exposed an old secret that could not be admitted. The servers brought the dishes. Grant picked out the tender belly of the fish and placed it on Isla’s plate. “Don’t eat the parts with too many bones.” Then he replaced the iced drink beside her with hot tea. “Bad stomach and still drinking cold stuff?” I looked at the raw marinated crab in front of me. He knew my stomach was weak. He knew I couldn’t eat raw or cold food. During our first year together, he used to remind servers before meals to prepare hot soup for me. I did not know when the person he remembered became Isla. Isla picked up her glass and walked over. “Nora, let me toast you. I’ve actually always wanted to apologize.” “Grant gets so lonely at sea. Sometimes I talk to him because I’m afraid he’s under too much pressure.” Others started chiming in. “Families need to understand the job. The mental pressure on communications officers isn’t something ordinary people get.” “Nora, don’t take it to heart. Isla’s an old friend. She’s not an outsider.” “Grant is already good enough to his family, right? Young couples shouldn’t fight over little things.” I looked at those faces, each one so certain, and suddenly wanted to laugh. “Thirty-one video calls in one month. The shortest was forty minutes. Does that count as work pressure?” The room went quiet. Grant’s face darkened. “Nora, do you have to say this here?” Isla’s eyes immediately reddened. “Nora, you’ve misunderstood. I’m filming a documentary. I needed to understand the ship’s conditions. Grant was just helping me check technical details.” I took out my phone and lit up the screen. “Does checking technical details require singing happy birthday at two in the morning?” Isla’s expression slipped for a second, then softened again. “I was in a bad place that night. He was afraid I’d do something stupid.” Grant picked up the thread. “Nora, Isla really was struggling last year. I couldn’t just watch a friend fall apart.” A friend. Those two words were a universal sheet thrown over shame. I said nothing else and set down my teacup. The mood at dinner had been ruined by me. For the rest of the meal, no one joked at my expense again. Grant looked over several times, his eyes full of dissatisfaction. Halfway through, I went to the restroom. Isla followed me. She stood in front of the mirror, reapplying lipstick. Her smile was faint. “Nora, you’re recording, aren’t you?” I did not deny it. She twisted the lipstick back down. “You don’t have to guard against me like this. If Grant really cared about you, nothing I said would matter.” I washed my hands. Water rushed over my fingertips. “Do you know? When he’s at sea, I’m always the first person he contacts.” “The stars, the storms, the docking time. I know all of it before you.” I turned off the faucet. “You know he’s married.” Isla looked at me through the mirror. “I know. That’s why I never stole him. He’s the one who can’t let go of the past.” She took out her phone. On the screen was a screenshot. Grant had written to her: She hasn’t been messaging me lately. Honestly, it’s peaceful. The date was the same day I stopped sending him even a period. Isla said softly, “Nora, what men fear most isn’t that you make a scene. It’s that you’re no longer useful but still refuse to leave gracefully.” I dried my hands. “You can say that in court too.” Her expression changed. When I walked out of the restroom, Grant was waiting at the end of the hall. He looked at me with open displeasure. “The moment you came, everyone got awkward. Nora, can you not drag your emotions from home into public?” I lifted my head. “I’m going back to my parents’ place tomorrow.” His brows pulled tight, his eyes full of impatience. “I only have a few days off. How long are you planning to keep this up?” I walked past him toward the private room. Inside my phone, the red dot on the recorder was still glowing. When we got home, I started packing my clothes. Grant stood at the bedroom door, his face grim. “You’re moving out now? You want both our families to know we fought?” I folded my everyday clothes into the suitcase. “It’s not a fight. It’s separation.” “Nora.” Whenever he called me by my full name, there was always that strained patience in his voice. “I admit Isla and I have been in touch a bit too much. But you can’t twist a normal friendship into something dirty.” I stopped moving. “I messaged you at dawn when I had stomach pain. You replied fourteen days later. That night, you were on video with her for an hour.” Grant frowned. “There are communication rules on board. Private messages can’t just be answered whenever.” I placed a stack of printed screenshots on the bed. March fifteenth. I had a fever of 102 and asked if he could reply with just one sentence. That same night, Isla posted a call screenshot. Duration: sixty-three minutes. April twentieth. A pipe burst at home. I rushed back from work and dealt with it alone until dawn. Isla posted a video of Grant showing her the moonlight over the ocean. May ninth. My father had a sudden heart attack and was admitted to the hospital. I stood in line at the payment window with shaking hands, entering the wrong PIN over and over. Grant was singing happy birthday to Isla while someone whistled in the background. He looked at those papers for a long time without speaking. “Isla was depressed during that period. Her relationship with her family is bad too. I was afraid she might hurt herself.” I smiled faintly. “The day my father had surgery, I was afraid too.” He looked up at me. For a brief moment, something in his expression shifted. Then his phone rang. Isla. Grant answered and put it on speaker. Isla was crying so hard she could barely breathe. “Grant, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone to the dinner. Nora said in the restroom that she was going to expose me and ruin my career.” Grant immediately looked at me. “You threatened her?” I kept packing. “The hotel has surveillance.” “No need to check.” His tone hardened. “Isla wouldn’t lie about something like this.” I looked at him. For the past two years, every grievance of mine needed evidence. One sob from Isla became fact. Isla continued over the phone, “Did I cause trouble for you two? I was only afraid you had no one to talk to at sea…” Grant lowered his voice. “Don’t cry. It’s not your fault.” After he hung up, his gaze settled heavily on me. “Why do you have to push someone who’s sick?” “Does she have a diagnosis?” “Nora, can you not be so cruel?” I took another document from the drawer. It was a transcript of a voice message I had sent him last winter. Grant, I’m not doing well. The house is so cold and my stomach hurts. I’m not trying to bother you. I just want to hear your voice. That voice message had only been sent to him. That afternoon, Isla sent me an audio file with a note. Nora, you really need to see a doctor. I handed him the screen. “You forwarded it to her?” Grant’s face changed. “I just wanted her to help me judge whether your emotions were unstable at the time. She’s taken some psychology courses.” The glass cup near my hand fell and shattered across the floor. A shard sliced across my palm. Blood welled up fast. Grant saw it. But he picked up his phone first and messaged Isla. She lost control. Don’t be scared. I looked down at my hand. So this was what happened when a person reached a certain point. Even pain arrived half a beat late. I pressed a tissue against the cut, picked up my bag, and left. The emergency hallway was harshly white. Bennett was waiting by the entrance, holding a copy of the court summons. When he saw my hand, he went to the nurses’ station for antiseptic cotton before handing me the papers. “The hearing time is confirmed. Three days from now. Nine in the morning.” I took them. Bennett hesitated. “You’re sure you don’t want mediation?” I looked at the thin cut across my palm. “I’m sure.” My phone vibrated. Grant had sent a message. You scared Isla badly. I’m going to check on her tonight. Calm down. Bennett glanced at it but said nothing. I screenshotted the message and saved it. The next morning, Grant called me. “I’m going with Isla to the lighthouse today to shoot some footage. Take your mother to her follow-up appointment yourself.” I looked at the appointment slip in my hand. “You promised you’d come with me.” He replied quickly. “It’s just a follow-up, not surgery. Don’t use family to pressure me.” My mother heard that sentence. 3 My mother stood at the hospital entrance holding a thermos. She did not ask. She only handed it to me. “Let’s go. Checkup first.” After reading the report, the doctor suggested further screening. My mother smiled. “I’m getting old. Little problems pile up.” The more she acted like that, the less I could say. When I was paying, I called Grant. No answer. But Isla’s documentary account updated with a short video. The wind by the lighthouse was fierce. Grant stood behind her, helping hold the tripod steady. Isla faced the camera and said, “The safest feeling in the world is knowing that whether he’s at sea or onshore, he’ll always make sure I can reach him.” My mother looked at the screen for a long while before asking, “Has he always been like this?” I put my phone away. “Yes.” This time, I did not explain for him. At eight that night, Grant came home. He carried a bag of seafood porridge and set it on the dining table. “Isla finished shooting. I brought this back on the way. Still hot. You and Mom can make do.” My mother could not eat seafood. My stomach was weak. I could not eat it either. He had forgotten all of it. I poured the porridge into the trash. For the first time, Grant lost his temper with me. “Nora, what exactly do you want now? I bring something back and you give me attitude. If I don’t, you say I don’t care.” “Is everything I do wrong?” My mother stood from the sofa. “Grant, Nora spent the whole day with me at the hospital. You promised you’d come.” Grant softened his tone, but his words stayed hard. “Mom, it’s not that I don’t care about you. Isla’s side was work too. She was alone near the lighthouse. If her equipment failed, it could have been dangerous.” My mother said nothing more. My phone vibrated again. Isla sent me a screenshot. She and Grant stood beneath the lighthouse, the sunset pressing against the ocean behind them. Nora, don’t blame him. He’s just too kind. I replied: See the evidence in court tomorrow. Within a minute, she deleted her post and removed the short video. Grant’s phone rang. He answered, and Isla’s voice shook. “Grant, Nora just said something about seeing evidence in court tomorrow. Is she suing me?” “I only posted an update. Why is she doing this?” Grant looked at me. For the first time, panic appeared in his eyes. “What does that mean?” I walked into the study and took out the folder from the drawer. Court summons. Copy of the divorce petition. Call records. One document after another, I laid them on the table. Grant picked up the summons. When he saw the hearing date, his face went pale. “Tomorrow?” “Nine in the morning.” “When did you file? Why didn’t you tell me?” “I did tell you,” I said, looking at him. “That day you went to answer Isla’s call. You didn’t hear me.” He set down the summons. His voice dropped. “Nora, we’re not at that point yet. Withdraw the case first. I can explain.” My mother stood beside me and said softly, “Grant, leave.” Grant seemed not to hear. He only stared at me. “Don’t let other people lead you by the nose. Was this Bennett’s idea? He’s an outsider. What does he know about us?” I picked up my bag by the door. “He knows the law.” Grant reached out to grab me. I stepped back. “Grant Mercer, my heart is dead. Tomorrow morning at nine, we divorce in court.” He stood there, his hand frozen midair. “Nora…” It was the first time in days he had called me like that. I opened the door. “Get out.” He looked at my mother, then at the documents on the table, as if only now realizing this was not another cold war. Before the door closed, he called hoarsely, “Honey.” I shut the door. Inside, there was only my mother’s controlled breathing and the court summons lying on the table. A few seconds later, his phone rang outside. Isla was still calling him.

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1 For three years, Jack was stationed in Antarctica. Each week, I packed and shipped him supplies, adjusting the checklist as polar temperatures dropped. Before every deployment, I asked to join the crew, but he always refused, citing strict station protocol. I said okay and let it go. That changed when Gary from logistics posted a group photo of Jack with a girl in a red Arc’teryx jacket, both smiling beneath the green aurora. I recognized her as Wandering Penguin Diary, a travel influencer. Her recent videos were all filmed in Antarctica. One showed Jack taking her to see the ice cap sunrise. When asked about clearance, she replied, The Captain gave me a VIP media pass, wink. In her latest reel, Jack gently steadied her wind-battered tripod, his voice soft as he adjusted her lighting. For three years, he had only ever spoken to me like a mission briefing. I unpacked the half-prepared supply box. I would use the thermal patches and beef jerky myself. I texted Gary to cancel the next shipment. Then I booked a Northern Lights expedition in Norway. If his South Pole had no room for a fiancé, I would see the aurora alone. … “Sierra, Stella just flew back to the States. Her old lease expired and she hasn’t found a new place yet, so she’s going to crash with us for a few days.” The front door swung open. Jack walked in, dragging a massive pastel pink suitcase behind him. Stella trailed right behind him. She was still wearing that same red hardshell jacket I had seen in her videos. “Hey Sierra, sorry to crash your place. The Captain insisted the partner hotels weren’t safe enough and dragged me all the way here.” Her eyes crinkled into those same smiling crescents. The blatant brag in her tone was impossible to miss. I closed the browser tab for the Tromsø aurora tour. I turned my head and looked at them. Jack parked the pink suitcase right in the middle of our living room. He smoothly reached into the shoe cabinet, pulled out a brand new pair of women’s house slippers, ripped off the tags, and dropped them at her feet. “Wear these. Your boots are going to give you blisters.” Those were the guest slippers I bought just two days ago. I hadn’t even worn them myself. I stayed seated on the couch. “How long is she staying?” Jack took off his coat and hung it up. “Just until she finds a new apartment. Probably two weeks.” “She draws a salary from her agency. The Polar Institute also provides corporate housing.” “She came back early specifically for the Institute’s outreach project. It is official business. Having her here makes it easier for me to coordinate the workflow.” His tone was totally clinical, like he was delivering a quarterly report. I just stared at him. Three years. Every conversation we had sounded exactly like this. “The research station doesn’t host family members. It is strictly against protocol.” That was his excuse when he refused to let me visit him. Now, he was dragging a non-family influencer right into our living room. “Whatever.” I looked away and stood up to head to the master bedroom. “Sierra.” He stopped me. “Help Stella set up the guest room. Put on some fresh sheets. She has trouble sleeping in new places, so use the pure cotton set.” I stopped in my tracks. I turned around and looked him dead in the eye. “I am not your maid.” Jack’s brows knitted together. “What is your problem today? You used to be so welcoming when we had guests.” “I know the difference between a guest and a stranger.” Stella immediately grabbed Jack’s sleeve and gave it a gentle tug. “Captain, please don’t fight with Sierra because of me. I really should just book a hotel. I can handle it myself.” She reached for the handle of her pink suitcase. Jack clamped his hand over hers. “Stop being ridiculous. You are staying here.” He turned back to me, a flicker of raw impatience in his eyes. “Sierra, Stella has been freezing in Antarctica for three months. Her immune system is wrecked. Stop being so petty over every little thing.” I was being petty. I looked down and let out a dry laugh. “Fine. Make yourselves at home.” I walked into the bedroom and shut the door behind me. Through the drywall, I could hear their hushed voices. “Is Sierra mad at me?” “No, she just gets in these moods. Ignore her.” “Captain, could you help me get my tripod out? I need to wipe down the lenses.” “Sure, which pocket?” “The side compartment.” His voice was so soft. So gentle. Exactly like the voiceover in the video. I opened my closet. I took all the heavy-duty barrier creams and thermal patches meant for the South Pole and shoved them into the very bottom storage bin. Then I pulled out my own suitcase and laid it flat on the floor. My flight to the Arctic Circle was exactly fourteen days away. Right around the time Stella said she would be moving out. I started tossing clothes into the suitcase. One sweater. Two sweaters. The door suddenly cracked open. Jack stood in the doorway holding an empty glass. “Do we have any antacids left?” His eyes swept over the open suitcase on the floor. He paused. “Why are you packing?” “Switching out my seasonal clothes.” I smoothly folded two more thick sweaters and tucked them inside without missing a beat. “Stella is having stomach cramps. Her eating habits got messed up on the ice cap.” He sounded genuinely distressed for her. “Could you go make her a bowl of hot chicken noodle soup? She hasn’t eaten anything solid all day.” My hands stopped moving. “Jack.” “Yeah?” “You have chronic stomach issues too. Tell me, how many flare-ups have you had in Antarctica over the past three years?” He clearly was not expecting that question. “Occasionally, I guess. Why?” “Nothing.” I snapped the suitcase shut. He had absolutely no idea. The reason he never had a flare-up in three years was because I mailed him his specific prescription antacids and gut-lining powders like clockwork every single week. And now here he was. Ordering me to cook for another woman’s stomach ache. “Meds are in the second drawer of the TV console. The noodles are in the pantry. Make it yourself.” I zipped up the suitcase. Jack’s face darkened. “Sierra, since when did you become so cold?” Cold. I looked at him. “How warm do you want me to be? You brought her home. She is your responsibility, not mine.” “She is my teammate!” “A teammate who needs the Captain to personally bring her into his fiancée’s home to nurse her?” “You are being completely unreasonable.” He slammed the door shut. Through the wood, I heard him walk back out to the living room. “Stella, she is not feeling well. How about I order you some oatmeal from that place downtown?” “It’s okay, Captain. I’m not really hungry. Please don’t go out of your way.” “Absolutely not. Your stomach will act up again. Let me see what’s open on UberEats.” I sat down on the rug. I looked at the flight confirmation text that had just popped up on my phone screen. Fourteen days until departure. A little while later, clattering noises echoed from the kitchen. Jack was actually cooking. A man who couldn’t tell a scallion from a garlic clove was navigating a stove for Stella. I opened the door to go get a glass of water. I walked out just in time to see him setting a steaming bowl of noodles on the dining table. A perfectly golden fried egg sat on top. Stella was sitting at the table, resting her chin in her hands. Her eyes were practically sparkling. “Thank you so much, Captain. I had no idea you could cook.” “Just threw something together. Eat it while it’s hot.” He pulled out the chair across from her and handed her a pair of forks. I walked past them with my empty glass. Jack caught sight of me. “There is more in the pot if you want some.” “Pass. Smells greasy.” I filled my glass with tap water and walked straight back to the bedroom. Stella’s tentative voice floated through the air behind me. “Captain, am I really causing too much trouble for you guys?” “No. Just eat.” I closed the door. I shut out those voices completely. 2 The next morning, the sound of running water in the bathroom woke me up. I pushed the door open. Stella was standing in front of the mirror doing her skincare routine. My products, which normally had the whole counter, were shoved into a tight corner. The center of the vanity was hijacked by rows of expensive serums and moisturizers. Worse, a fuzzy pink towel was draped aggressively over my toothbrush cup. “Morning, Sierra.” She turned her head, flashing an innocent smile. “Sorry about the mess. I have a lot of products. Hope you don’t mind.” I walked over. I pinched the pink towel between two fingers. I dropped it straight into the laundry hamper next to the toilet. “I do mind.” Stella’s smile froze. “Sierra, what are you doing? That towel is brand new.” “It touched my toothbrush.” I picked up the toothbrush and tossed it directly into the trash can. “Sierra, are you out of your mind?” Jack’s voice echoed from behind me. He was in his sweatpants, frowning as he walked in and instinctively pulled Stella behind him. “It is just a towel. Is the dramatic tantrum really necessary?” “It’s unsanitary.” I looked at him, my voice completely flat. “You!” Jack took a deep breath, visibly suppressing his temper. “Stella just got here. She is still adjusting. As the lady of the house, could you try to be a little more accommodating?” Lady of the house. I caught the phrasing. We paid the down payment on this apartment together. Both our names were on the deed. Yet in his eyes, I was just the hostess playing nice for his real priorities. “She is just crashing for a few days. Stop pulling rank to bully her.” He didn’t wait for my response. He just handed down the verdict. I nodded slowly. “Fine. I won’t bully her.” I turned around, walked back to my room, and grabbed a new toothbrush from my stash. Breakfast was agonizingly tense. Jack had gone out for coffee and pastries. He slid a steaming cup of hot latte toward Stella. “Drink something warm. It will settle your stomach.” Then he pushed the remaining iced coffee toward me. I touched the plastic cup. Condensation dripped down the sides. “I can’t drink cold stuff right now. Did you forget?” I get severe cramps this time of the month. I never touch ice. Jack froze. A flash of genuine annoyance crossed his face. “I grabbed the wrong cup. Stella’s is the hot one.” He reached over to swap them. But Stella had already taken a sip from the hot cup. She looked at me with wide, apologetic eyes. “Oh no, I already drank from it. Sierra, do you want to just pop yours in the microwave?” “Don’t bother.” I stood up, took the iced latte, and poured it straight down the kitchen sink. “Enjoy your breakfast.” That afternoon, I had to drop off some paperwork at the Polar Research Institute downtown. Jack had asked me to organize his data authorization forms before he flew back. Just as I reached the plaza outside the building, I saw Jack and Stella walking out of the glass double doors. Stella had a blue lanyard hanging around her neck. Attached to it was an all-access VIP keycard for the Institute’s restricted labs. Three years. As the Captain’s fiancée, every time I came to deliver supplies or drop off paperwork, I had to stand at the security booth and wait in the freezing wind for him to come down and get it. I once asked him if he could get me a temporary guest pass. He said: “The Institute has strict security protocols. Family members aren’t allowed to wander around. It is the rules.” I believed him. Now, I realized the only person blocked by those rules was me. “Captain, that aurora simulation pod was incredible! I already have the whole storyboard for my next reel.” Stella was practically bouncing on her heels. “Glad you liked it. I’ll have the tech guys email you the raw data files later.” Jack’s tone was warm. Indulgent. Then he looked up and saw me standing at the bottom of the steps. The warmth vanished from his face instantly. The clinical, strictly-business mask slammed back into place. “What are you doing here?” “Dropping off your authorization forms.” I held out the manila envelope. He took it and barely glanced at it. “You could have just left it with security. Why did you walk all the way over?” “I was in the area.” My eyes drifted down to the blue VIP pass resting against Stella’s chest. “She has clearance?” Jack followed my gaze. His jaw tightened. “She is an official media partner. She has a filming schedule. The board expedited her pass.” “How long does an expedited pass take?” “A week.” “Didn’t you two just land in New York yesterday?” Jack went dead silent for two seconds. “I filed the paperwork for her while we were still at the station.” For her content. While stationed ten thousand miles away in a frozen wasteland, he navigated time zones, pulled strings, and chased down board members just to get her a plastic card. But when I asked for a visitor pass just so I wouldn’t have to freeze outside for half an hour, he fed me “protocol.” “That is great.” I gave a tight smile, turned around, and started walking away. “Wait, Sierra!” Stella called out. She trotted down the steps and shoved a small blue paper bag into my hands. “I bought this at the Institute’s gift shop just now. For you.” I looked down. It was a plush penguin keychain. “The Captain mentioned you absolutely love cute little things like this, so I picked the best one.” I love cute little things. That was a passing comment I made five years ago, right when we started dating. I casually said penguins were adorable. I grew up. I stopped buying stuffed animals years ago. But his memory of my preferences was permanently stuck on a throwaway comment from half a decade ago. “No thanks. Keep it as a prop for your videos.” I didn’t take the bag. “Just take it.” Jack stepped down, grabbed the bag, and practically forced it into my palm. “It is a nice gesture from Stella. Stop being so ungrateful.” Ungrateful. The word felt like a shard of glass sliding between my ribs. I looked at the cheap blue bag in my hand. The whole situation suddenly felt profoundly hilarious. “Sure. Thanks.” I crushed the bag in my fist and walked toward the subway. When I got home, I threw the penguin keychain into the trash can. Then I opened my laptop and went back to researching aurora hunting spots in Norway. Tromsø. December was the absolute best time for solar activity. My phone buzzed. It was a text from my best friend, Gemma. “Shopping this weekend? I heard Jack is back in town. You aren’t playing house with him?” “He has someone else to keep him company.” I typed the words out and hit send. She replied instantly with a single question mark. I didn’t bother explaining. I opened the Notes app on my phone. I typed out the iced coffee in the sink, the pink towel in the trash, and the blue VIP pass around another woman’s neck. It was a habit I had picked up over the last few days. Every single disappointment went into the list. Once the progress bar hit one hundred percent, I was deleting the whole file. 3 Saturday afternoon. Gemma and I met up at a mall in Soho. I tried on a heavy, insulated white parka, prepping for the Arctic chill. “Why are you buying Everest gear? It doesn’t even get that cold in New York.” Gemma sat on the fitting room couch, sipping her boba, looking thoroughly confused. “I am going somewhere cold.” I adjusted the fur-lined collar in the mirror. “Where? Did Jack finally agree to take you to the South Pole?” “No. I am going by myself.” I took off the parka and handed it to the cashier. Gemma narrowed her eyes, instantly sensing the shift in my tone. “What exactly is going on with you two? I asked you the other day and you ghosted me.” “Nothing. I am just tired of it all.” I took the shopping bag. We walked out of the boutique, heading toward a restaurant. I turned the corner, and froze. Right across the atrium, inside an elite outdoor apparel store, were two very familiar faces. Jack and Stella. Stella was trying on a top-of-the-line Arc’teryx hardshell jacket. The price tag dangling from the zipper read $1,800. Jack stood right beside her, meticulously adjusting the velcro cuffs on her sleeves. “This color block is highly visible in whiteout conditions. You won’t freeze to the bone next time we do an ice cap shoot.” His voice drifted out of the open storefront. Patient. Attentive. Gemma followed my line of sight. Her eyes practically bugged out of her head. “Who the hell is that?” “His teammate. A science influencer.” My voice was dead calm. Like I was reading a Wikipedia page about a stranger. “Teammate my ass.” Gemma let out a dark laugh and stormed straight into the store. I couldn’t catch her in time. I had to follow her in. “Well look who it is! Captain Jack. Real busy schedule you got since flying back, huh? Taking the ‘teammates’ on shopping sprees?” Gemma crossed her arms, standing near the racks, dripping with sarcasm. Jack jolted. He spun around, saw us, and immediately scowled. “Gemma? What are you doing here?” “I am taking your fiancée shopping.” Gemma pointed sharply at the bag in my hand. “Sierra has been with you for five solid years, and I have never once seen you buy her a jacket that costs more than a hundred bucks.” Jack’s face went rigid. His eyes darted past Gemma and locked onto me. “Sierra, what kind of garbage have you been feeding her behind my back?” His absolute first instinct was to accuse me of gossiping. “I haven’t said a word.” I stared right back at him. “Sierra, please don’t misunderstand.” Stella quickly unzipped the expensive jacket, stepping forward with a look of manufactured panic. “I am paying for this myself. The Captain is just helping me check the specs.” “Does checking the specs require him to stroke your forearms?” Gemma fired back without missing a beat. “You are an outdoor influencer, but you can’t read a damn size chart? Or do you just get a kick out of playing helpless around other women’s fiancés?” “Gemma!” Jack barked, his voice echoing in the store. “Watch your mouth. Stella is sourcing professional gear for the station’s official media campaign. If you don’t know what you are talking about, don’t throw a tantrum in public.” “I am throwing a tantrum?” Gemma let out a breathless laugh, rolling up her sleeves like she was ready to swing. I grabbed her arm and pulled her back. “Enough, Gemma. Let’s go.” I wasn’t going to make a scene for strangers to film. “Go where? Sierra, you are a complete pushover!” Gemma glared at me, furious at my lack of fight. “Jack, look yourself in the mirror.” “Sierra runs around this city every week buying you thermal gear with her own money. What do you do? You take another woman out to watch the southern lights.” “You finally come home, and you move her into your apartment and take her shopping for luxury gear.” “If you want to break off the engagement, have the spine to say it out loud. Stop doing this disgusting, cowardly garbage!” Jack’s face turned completely black. The other shoppers were starting to stare. “Sierra.” He glared at me. His voice was absolute ice. “Take your friend and leave. Stop embarrassing yourself.” Embarrassing myself. In his mind, my best friend defending my five-year relationship was an embarrassment. “Okay.” I nodded slowly. I grabbed Gemma’s wrist and walked out of the store. I didn’t hesitate for a single second. When I got home that night, the living room was completely dark. I walked in, swapped my shoes, and started toward my bedroom. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a ripped cardboard box sitting on the coffee table. It was the package holding the custom polar star projector I ordered two months ago. I had planned to set it up in the living room next Friday, for our five-year anniversary. A massive surprise. Because he once told me the stars over the Antarctic ice were the most beautiful thing in the world, and he felt bad I would never get to see them. Now, the box was empty. A faint, ethereal blue glow was spilling from beneath the crack of the guest room door. I walked over. I pushed the door open. Stella was lying on the bed, holding her phone up, recording a TikTok. Projected onto the ceiling above her was the exact map of the South Pole night sky I had custom ordered. “Hey guys, just doing a quick room tour to show off this insane gift the Captain got me. Isn’t this the most romantic aesthetic ever?” She smiled perfectly into the front-facing camera. I stood in the doorway. “Who gave you permission to open my mail?” My voice was deadly quiet. Stella gasped, nearly dropping her phone onto the mattress. She sat up, recognized me, and dramatically clutched her chest. “Jesus, Sierra, you walk so quietly.” “I asked you a question. Who told you to open that box?” I repeated, not moving an inch. “You mean the projector?” She pointed at the ceiling. “The Captain said it was a PR sample from one of the institute’s vendors. He said it was just taking up space in the living room, so he told me to use it for my lighting.” A PR sample. I spent four hundred dollars on that projector. I waited eight weeks for the custom lens calibration. And he treated it like a piece of junk taking up space, handing it off to another woman to make content. “Give it back.” I walked over to the outlet and ripped the cord from the wall. The galaxy instantly vanished. The room plunged into darkness. “Sierra, what the hell are you doing?” Jack had just walked through the front door. Hearing the commotion, he stormed into the room and slammed the wall switch. The harsh overhead light flooded the space. He saw me holding the projector, and Stella sitting on the bed looking like a kicked puppy. “I am taking back what belongs to me.” “It is a cheap promotional sample! Are you seriously going to cause a scene over this? Stella needed it for a shoot. What is the harm in letting her borrow it?” His tone was dripping with that familiar, patronizing exhaustion. “I bought this.” I stared directly into his eyes. “I bought it for our five-year anniversary next Friday.” Jack froze. The irritation on his face cracked. His eyes darted away, suddenly unsure. “Five years… I thought the shipping label said it was from the Institute.” “Do you ever bother to read the name on the box?” I held the heavy plastic projector to my chest. A profound, hollow exhaustion washed over me. “Fine. I’m sorry. I misread it.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, throwing out a half-hearted, dismissive apology. “Take the thing back. On our anniversary, I’ll take you to that fancy French place in Manhattan you’ve been talking about. We good?” We good. It was always like this. He would toss out a superficial compromise from his high horse, expecting me to catch it and be grateful. I looked at him. “Don’t bother.” I walked out of the guest room with the projector. I stopped next to the kitchen trash can. I opened my hands. Crash. The projector slammed against the bottom of the bin, the custom lens shattering into pieces. Jack had followed me out. He watched it happen, his face turning an ugly shade of gray. “Sierra, what is wrong with you lately? I said I was sorry. What exactly do you want from me?” “I don’t want anything from you.” I brushed the dust off my hands. “The projector is dirty now. I don’t want it anymore.”

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1 For the five years we were together, Sloane was one of the top astrophotographers in the world. But I never once begged her to take me on her expeditions. She had made her boundaries very clear. “The golden rule of astrophotography is zero light pollution. Even a single flash of a phone screen can completely destroy an entire night of long exposure.” Because of that rule, for five long years, I did not even dare to text her a simple “Are you there yet?” when she traveled. I was terrified that the brief glow of her screen lighting up in the dark would ruin her masterpiece. I just waited at home. Every time she ventured into the frozen tundras or snowy peaks, I folded a tiny origami star out of paper. Inside every single paper star, I hid the quiet, desperate murmurs I never dared to send her. The wind is brutal today, wear an extra layer. I am waiting for you to come home. Five years. One thousand and ninety-six stars. Filling three large glass jars. She never opened a single one. Last week, she was shortlisted for the most prestigious international astrophotography award. I was thrilled for her. I logged onto the official website to look at her submitted entry. The photograph was titled Light. Right in the dead center of the frame, her male assistant, Jace, stood in a bright red winter parka. He was holding a blazing sparkler, laughing with absolute, reckless abandon. The judge’s commentary below the photo read: “The photographer willingly abandoned a once-in-a-seventy-year comet, sacrificing the entire exposure of the night sky to perfectly capture the figure in the foreground.” It hit me then. Her world was never completely devoid of light. She just strictly forbade me from shining. That night, I poured all one thousand and ninety-six paper stars out of their jars. I unfolded them, one by one. I read every single hidden message out loud in the empty apartment. I read them entirely to myself. And then, I set them all on fire. When dawn broke, I washed the three empty glass jars until they were spotless. I lined them up perfectly on top of her expensive protective lens case. This universe holds ten thousand tons of boundless, brilliant galaxies. I was never meant to spend my life standing outside someone else’s lens, begging for a sliver of light. The next day, Sloane had a magazine interview scheduled for three in the afternoon. That morning, she set up her professional backdrop. She meticulously arranged her priceless lenses along the display wall. “National Geographic is coming to the apartment to shoot my exclusive. Clear all your junk out of the living room.” My “junk” consisted of my photography books and those three empty glass jars. I gathered my books in my arms and carried them into the bedroom. By the time I walked back out, she had already shoved the three jars into the darkest corner of the room. Her face was twisted in disgust. “Why are you keeping these ugly empty bottles? They look pathetic. Keep them out of the frame.” “Just leave them there for now,” I replied softly. She didn’t press the issue. The journalist arrived exactly at three. Sloane changed into a sleek black silk shirt I had just ironed for her last week. She sat elegantly at her workstation. I sat quietly by the kitchen island, my hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had long gone completely cold. “Sloane, your piece Light absolutely stunned the judges. Can you walk us through what happened that night?” Sloane relaxed into her chair, her voice slowing into a thoughtful rhythm. “Our original observation window was locked onto a comet that only passes Earth once every seventy years. But the summit was brutally cold that night. We were pushing twenty below zero.” “My assistant, Jace, was shivering uncontrollably. He lit a sparkler just to feel a tiny bit of warmth. The exact second that spark ignited, it hit me. All those dead, frozen rocks floating millions of lightyears away could never compare to the living, breathing fire right in front of me.” The journalist let out a gasp of sheer awe. “But the entire industry knows you have an unbreakable rule. Absolute zero light pollution.” Sloane smiled. Her eyes filled with a soft, profound tenderness I had never once seen directed at me. “Rules are dead constructs. When that sparkler illuminated his face, I was more than willing to tear down every single rule I ever made.” Five years. I had guarded a pitch-black, suffocating darkness for over a thousand nights. And she willingly ignited the most blinding fire imaginable, just because another man was a little cold. The journalist flipped through her outline and let her gaze drift over to me. “Sloane, what is your family’s stance on your intense career? Your partner must be incredibly accommodating.” Sloane casually followed the journalist’s gaze and glanced at me. Her expression instantly reverted to total indifference. “He does not understand photography. He doesn’t get the grueling nature of the industry. But his best quality is that he is quiet. He never gets in my way.” Under the shadow of the kitchen island, my right hand curled into a violently trembling fist. Five years ago, my own deep-space photography portfolio won the national gold medal. Back then, I was the one holding the heavy telephoto lenses, waiting through overnight blizzards for the perfect shot. Then she told me a household did not need two starving artists. She said she needed a stable base camp to support her. To help her achieve her pure, uncompromised artistic vision, I locked my camera in a safe. I shrank myself down into the clueless, domestic housekeeper she just described. She had truly, completely forgotten. After showing the journalist out, Sloane paused by the study door. “Transfer the RAW files from the portable drive to the cloud tonight. Jace needs to prep them. The publisher is waiting for the photobook drafts.” She closed the door before I could even reply. I opened my laptop and plugged in the drive. My phone vibrated on the table. Sender: The Icelandic National Observatory Magazine. “Mr. Cole, a few days ago, our editorial board revisited your early photography portfolios. That acute, visceral connection to the cosmos is exactly the soul we have been searching for. The position of Chief Astrophotographer remains open for you. Have you made your decision?” I stared at the email, my fingertips turning cold. People sitting halfway across the globe could still recognize my light. Yet the woman sleeping beside me every night only saw me as a convenient maid. I closed the cloud drive and opened my email client. “Thank you for keeping the position open. Please give me three days to finalize my affairs. I will send my formal acceptance then.” Early the next morning, Sloane tossed a manila envelope onto the dining table. “The publisher needs twenty high-res shots for a special feature in the photobook. Go through the drive and pick them out for me.” “You want me to pick them?” “You used to dabble in a little bit of photography, right? You know the basics of composition and lighting. I have to coordinate with the award organizers for the next two days. I don’t have the time.” I plugged the drive back in. The candidate folder contained over three hundred photos. Every single one of them was of Jace. There were no equatorial mounts. No star charts. No galaxies. Just Jace wrapped in a sleeping bag, watching the sunrise from a tent. Jace crouching by a stream washing his hands, his side profile beautifully framed by the morning light. Every single image had been painstakingly color-graded and retouched. I actually understood photography. That was exactly why I knew. These three hundred photos were captured with a deep, bottomless reservoir of love. Sloane and I had been together for five years. She had never taken a single photograph of me. She always told me her lens was strictly reserved for the cosmos, never for human portraits. I sat there for two hours, coldly selecting the twenty photos with the most technically flawless composition. Sloane walked out of the study and flipped through my selections. “Not bad. These angles are pretty close to what I had in mind.” She pulled the drive out and walked to the front door. Right before she left, she casually tossed one last order over her shoulder. “Oh, by the way. Each photo in the book needs a short caption. Write them for me. Jace is terrible with words.” I was being ordered to write romantic captions for twenty breathtaking, intimate portraits of another man. “Alright.” I heard my own voice reply. It was terrifyingly calm. She slammed the door shut. I opened the first photograph. It was taken on a high-altitude plateau, easily twenty below zero. Jace was standing in knee-deep snow. Sloane had taken off her own heated thermal gloves and put them on his hands. He was smiling at the camera like a bright, innocent deer. I stared at those gloved hands on the screen. Slowly, I looked down at my own right hand. The joints of my index and middle fingers were grotesquely swollen and permanently deformed. They bore two ugly, dark purple scars from severe frostbite. Four years ago in the Alaskan tundra. A blizzard hit us at thirty below zero. To ensure she didn’t miss a breathtaking meteor shower, I dug through waist-deep snow with my bare hands to find a buried backup battery. The wind was too fierce. I slipped on the ice and fell hard, my thumb accidentally pressing the power button on my phone. The faint screen lit up the darkness for exactly one second. Sloane sprinted over from forty feet away, screaming at the top of her lungs. “Do you have any concept of what zero light pollution means! I waited four hours for this composition, and you just destroyed it!” I sat in the snow that night until my hands entirely lost feeling, resulting in permanent nerve damage. I slowly placed my ruined hand back onto the keyboard. Staring at Jace’s radiant smile on the screen, I typed out the first caption. “In the dead silence of the frozen wasteland, he is the only color more precious than the stars.” As I typed those words, I felt absolutely no sadness. Just a overwhelming sense of absurdity and dark comedy. The great master photographer who worshipped the absolute dark as her religion. She was now forcing me to write these painfully explicit words, declaring to the entire world that she had willingly surrendered to a cheap, polluting light. I would give her exactly what she wanted. I would make sure this hypocritical, humiliating caption was printed permanently in her personal photobook. These twenty captions were my final gift to her. A footnote written by someone who actually understood photography, mocking her pathetic faith. Late that night, I sent the twenty finished captions to her phone. She replied with a single word. “Fine.” I smiled, closed the document, and opened my email. “I officially accept your invitation. I will arrive in Reykjavik to report for duty on the 15th at the earliest.” Seven days until the 15th. Three days until the award ceremony. That afternoon, the doorbell rang. It was an international expedited courier. The envelope wasn’t sealed tight. I immediately saw the gold-foil English certificate inside. The International Star Registry. It listed precise coordinates. East Longitude: 18°36′56″, North Latitude: 38°47′01″. The Lyra Constellation. Right below those coordinates, a name was printed in elegant calligraphy. [Jace] The registration date was the exact same night she abandoned the comet to shoot Light. Tucked at the very bottom of the certificate was a handwritten note from Sloane. “Stars burn for billions of years. This star is my permanent exposure, dedicated only to you.” I stared at the small card in total silence. She spent a small fortune to buy a real, burning star in the cosmos and stamped Jace’s name on it. She hung it in the Milky Way, right beside Vega. I folded one thousand and ninety-six paper stars. She never even looked at a single one. Paper stars and real stars were never meant to carry the same weight. I put the certificate back exactly how I found it. I placed it dead center on her desk. When Sloane came home that evening and saw the certificate, her body visibly stiffened. She quickly grabbed a thick portfolio book and slapped it over the frame, violently changing the subject. “The organizers want me to prepare a five-minute acceptance speech. Since you are just sitting around the house doing nothing, write it for me.” “What exactly do you want to say?” “Write about the photographer’s absolute dedication to the dark. Write about how I overcame impossible odds to eradicate all light pollution.” I picked up a pen. The words flowed out of me effortlessly. Because for the last five years, I was the one standing in the freezing, pitch-black night with her. I was the one whose light was entirely eradicated by her rules. The next day, Sloane pinned her printed Iceland itinerary to the white board in the kitchen. “I am flying straight to Iceland right after the ceremony.” My hand froze as I packed my shirts into a box. “Iceland?” “It is the final window for the aurora season. Jace and I have been planning this for three months. We found the perfect observation point. Absolute zero light pollution.” That was my destination. “How long will you be gone?” “Ten days.” I stared at the red text printed in the notes section for the final day of her trip. [Shoot portraits of Jace under the aurora. Continuation of the Light series.] “Sloane.” I spoke without turning around to look at her. “Years ago, you promised we would go to Iceland together to see the aurora.” She stopped organizing her gear. Her eyebrows slammed together in deep irritation. “Cole, why are you digging up ancient history? It drops to twenty below zero in Iceland at night. Your hands ache the second they get cold. You would just be pure dead weight out there.” “Does Jace not get cold?” “He is a professional assistant! How can you even compare yourself to him? Can you please not throw a tantrum and cause trouble right now?” “Understood.” I turned away from her completely. I reached under the bed and pulled out my small, twenty-inch carry-on suitcase. I quietly packed my passport, my visa, and a few heavy wool sweaters. This apartment was massive. But the things that actually belonged to me couldn’t even fill half a small suitcase. The night of the award ceremony. I did not sit in the family VIP section. I used a staff pass and stood in the absolute darkest corner of the back row. The spotlight hit the center of the stage. On the massive screen, the photo Light was displayed. Jace was smiling wildly behind the sparks of the fire. Sloane walked up to the microphone wearing a stunning, custom-made evening gown. She pulled the speech I wrote out of her pocket and read the first sentence. “Astrophotography is a painful pilgrimage into the dark. We spend our entire lives chasing absolute zero light pollution.” She stopped. A heavy silence hung over the auditorium for ten full seconds. Then, in front of thousands of industry elites, Sloane folded the cue card in half and shoved it back into her pocket. “This speech is far too rigid. Tonight, I want to discard the script and speak from my heart.” She lifted her chin. Her eyes locked directly onto Jace, who was sitting in the second row. “Anyone who knows me knows I have an uncompromising golden rule. Zero light pollution. I demand that the people around me barely even breathe, just so they don’t disturb my exposure.” I stood in the shadows of the back row. I listened to her publicly describe the chains she had locked around my neck for five years. “Today, many people asked me why I abandoned a comet that only appears once every seventy years.” She paused for a fraction of a second. Her gaze melted as she stared at the dark coat in the second row. “Because a comet leaves, but it always comes back. Even if it takes seventy years, it will eventually cross this sky again.” “But some people are not comets. They are meteors. You never know when they will ignite, and you never know if they will ever shine again.” “So the exact second he appeared, I shut down all my equipment. I abandoned every single plan. I took my camera, my entire night, and the entire sky, and I pointed it all directly at him.” Her voice dropped into a soft, reverent whisper. “In that moment, I finally understood. The stars in the sky are dead. Their light travels for millions of years just to reach Earth, entirely devoid of warmth. True light is the warmth you feel the second you turn your head in the frozen wasteland.” She stared at Jace, whose eyes were shining with unshed tears. “So, I willingly shattered the golden rule I upheld for five years. Because what we call light pollution is just light shining in the wrong place. Jace, thank you for lighting up my universe.” Deafening applause nearly blew the roof off the auditorium. Under the gaze of thousands, Jace stood up and ran toward the stage. She used my five years of absolute, agonizing sacrifice in the dark to prove her discipline. And then she used Jace’s cheap sparkler to prove her true love. I did not stay to watch them embrace. Drowning in the roar of the cheering crowd, I turned around and walked out of the hall. I took a cab back to the apartment I had lived in for five years. I rolled my single, small suitcase to the front door. I walked over to the display shelf and took down those three perfectly washed, dustless glass jars. I lined them up with military precision right next to her hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar camera rig. No hidden notes. No lingering nostalgia. One thousand and ninety-six nights of dead silence. All completely emptied out. I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and closed the door behind me. My phone vibrated. A text from Sloane. “Jace had too much to drink at the afterparty. I will be home late. Go to sleep first, don’t leave a light on for me.” I stared at the screen for a second. Then, I popped the SIM card out of the phone I had used for five years, snapped it in half, and tossed it into the trash can on the street. The taxi sped down the highway. The neon lights of the city blurred past the windows. The world was overflowing with blinding, beautiful light pollution. She used to say she could not see the stars in this city, so she had to travel far away. But she didn’t know that the astrophotographer who once buried all his brilliance and hid in the dark just for her had completely erased his existence from her life tonight. Sloane, your world doesn’t require zero light pollution anymore. And I am going to take back the boundless, infinite galaxies that always belonged to me.

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1 Three days before the wedding, Blake Foster replaced every invitation. The bride’s name changed from Vivian Shaw to Lucia Lane. Lucia Lane. The woman who had abandoned him alone outside an operating room three years ago, signed a breakup agreement, and left the country. I thought I had misread it. I checked three times. Blake stood by the door, his eyes red, his voice calm. “She has late-stage brain cancer. Four months, at most.” “She said the greatest regret of her life was never getting to wear a wedding dress with me.” “Vivian, I just want someone who’s dying to leave this world in peace. After the wedding, I’ll come back.” I pointed at the newly printed invitations, my voice trembling. “So you’re using our wedding, our hotel, and my guests to marry another woman?” He was silent for a long time. In the end, he said only one sentence. “You wouldn’t understand. She skipped surgery for me. That’s why it progressed to late-stage.” I stopped speaking. I watched him take the wedding rings from the pocket of my gown. After he left, I stood alone in the empty room for a long time. Finally, I redesigned the invitation. Only this time, the groom’s name was no longer his. … “Vivian, replace the mattress in the master bedroom. Lucia can’t sleep on anything this firm.” Blake’s voice came from the bedroom, matter-of-fact and faintly impatient. I locked the freshly printed new invitations into the study drawer. Then I walked to the master bedroom door. Several movers were struggling to drag out the mattress I had custom-ordered from Italy half a year ago. Blake had severe neurasthenia. To help him sleep better, I compared more than a dozen brands before choosing this one with the strongest support. Now it had been casually dumped in the hallway, covered in dust. Lucia leaned against the bay window. Her face was indeed pale, but there was a careless smile tugging at her mouth. “Vivian, I’m so sorry.” She coughed twice and pressed a hand to her chest, gasping. “My body is getting worse. If the bed is even a little firm, my bones hurt so badly I can’t stand it.” “I’ll have to trouble you for a few days. Once I’m dead, this wedding home will still be yours.” Blake immediately walked over and patted her back with practiced familiarity, his eyes full of distress. “Don’t say that. The doctor said if you rest properly, you can still live a few more months.” Then he turned to me, his tone instantly cold. “Vivian Shaw, why are you standing there? Come help.” I looked at the way he protected Lucia and found it almost funny. Three days ago, he had been holding my waist on that bed, talking about our honeymoon. Now, he wanted to place another woman in our wedding home. Even on our wedding bed. I stepped forward and helped the movers push the old mattress out with one hand. “No need to replace the mattress.” I looked at Blake calmly. “I’ll sleep in the guest room.” Blake froze for a second, as if he hadn’t expected me to be so easy to deal with. In his imagination, I should have argued with him like yesterday, demanding to know why he was destroying our wedding. But now, I only felt tired. A flash of triumph passed through Lucia’s eyes. Then she quickly put on a frightened expression. “How can that be? Vivian, this is your wedding home. How can I take the master bedroom?” “Blake, I should go. I’ll just make do under a bridge for a few days. Don’t hurt your relationship because of me.” As she spoke, she pretended to walk out, only for her body to go weak and fall toward Blake. Blake hurriedly caught her, then turned and glared at me. “Vivian Shaw, can’t you be a little more generous?” “Lucia is already this sick. Who are you showing that cold face to?” “She missed surgery back then because of you.” Because of me? Three years ago, Blake had been in a car accident and needed a blood transfusion. Lucia took the two-million-dollar check from the Lane family and flew abroad overnight. She never mentioned surgery. I was the one who donated almost more blood than legally allowed and stayed by him for three days and nights. Now, with one sentence about missing treatment for him, Lucia had cleansed herself into the tragic heroine. And I, the one who had truly saved him, had become the villain. “I’m not showing any face.” I looked at Blake, my voice without a ripple. “She can have the master bedroom. I’ll go pack.” With that, I stopped looking at them and went straight into the walk-in closet to take out my suitcase. I didn’t have many clothes. Two cases were packed quickly. After settling Lucia, Blake came in and saw the suitcases on the floor. His brows tightened. “What are you doing? Packing this much? Are you moving out?” “Just some clutter. It won’t fit in the guest room.” I gave a casual answer. He looked at me suspiciously for a moment, then sighed and came over, trying to take my hand. “Vivian, I know this is unfair to you.” “But Lucia really is pitiful. She has no family in the country.” “After the wedding is over, I’ll take her to a care facility. Then you and I can get our marriage certificate. Okay?” I avoided his hand and zipped the suitcase shut. Marriage certificate? He probably forgot that our original registration date was tomorrow. “Do whatever you want.” I pulled the suitcase toward the door. Blake called after me. “Don’t forget tomorrow’s fitting. Lucia couldn’t reserve a suitable gown, so let her borrow yours first.” My steps stopped. That wedding gown was designed by me, for the purpose of marrying him. I had drawn the design myself and found a tailor to stitch it by hand, one needle at a time. I turned back and looked at his righteous face. “Fine.” After leaving the apartment, I threw my luggage into the trunk. Sitting in the driver’s seat, I dialed a number. The call connected after two rings. A steady, clear male voice came through. “What? Miss Shaw finally decided to check up on me?” I leaned wearily against the seat and closed my eyes. “Warren, are you ready for the wedding the day after tomorrow?” Warren let out a soft laugh on the other end. “As long as the groom isn’t anyone but me, I’m ready anytime.” “But I need to make sure, Vivian. You’re not using me to get back at Blake, are you?” I opened my eyes and looked at my exhausted face in the rearview mirror. “No.” “The invitations have already been sent to all core guests. Pullman Hall, top floor of the hotel.” Warren was silent for two seconds. When he spoke again, his tone was serious. “All right. I’ll be there on time.” After hanging up, I drove to the couture bridal salon downtown. This was where we had originally agreed to do the fitting. As soon as I pushed open the glass door, I heard Blake’s impatient voice. “Why is the waist so tight? Did you measure the size wrong?” The sales associate was anxious and sweating. “Mr. Foster, these were the measurements Miss Shaw gave six months ago. Perhaps you’ve become… slightly more muscular recently.” Blake was wearing the hand-tailored main suit that had taken half a year to make. The hem was embroidered with subtle, exquisite patterns. It should have fit his body perfectly. Now the buttons were stuck at his abdomen, looking a little ridiculous. Lucia walked out of the fitting room in the couture gown that originally belonged to me. The gown was obviously a size too large on her, hanging loosely from her shoulders. But as she looked at herself in the mirror, the greed in her eyes could not be hidden. “Blake, Vivian’s gown is really made from beautiful fabric. It’s just too big.” She walked toward Blake and reached for his arm, but accidentally stepped on the train. Rip. A soft tearing sound. A length of lace at the back of the gown was torn open. The sales associate gasped and covered her mouth. Blake froze too. Lucia immediately pulled back her foot, lowering her head with guilt all over her face. “I’m sorry, Blake. I’m dizzy. I couldn’t stand properly.” “Was this gown very expensive? I’ll pay you back… but I don’t have money on me right now…” As she spoke, her eyes reddened. Blake held her hand with distress and glared at the sales associate. “What are you screaming about? It’s just a little torn lace. Stitch it back up.” He turned to me as I walked over, his tone carrying an order. “Vivian, perfect timing.” “This suit is too tight and uncomfortable. Lucia’s gown is also too large.” “Have the salon rush the alterations. You pay first.” I quietly looked at the torn place. There, my and Blake’s initials had once been embroidered. For that small detail, I had called the designer overseas countless times. Now, it looked like a torn joke. “It can’t be altered.” My voice was calm. Blake’s brows furrowed deeper. “What do you mean it can’t be altered? Not even if we pay extra? Vivian, are you being stingy?” “Lucia is only getting married once. Can’t you let her look decent?” Looking at his aggressive expression, I suddenly felt he was unbearably unfamiliar. Three years of wholehearted devotion could not earn even a second of concern from him. “The fabric is a limited supply. There’s no extra material for alterations.” I walked to the sales associate and handed over a black card. “Pack the damaged gown and suit. I’m taking them.” Blake panicked and grabbed my arm. “If you take them, what are we wearing tomorrow?” “That suit was made according to my preferences. What right do you have to take it?” I shook off his hand and brushed the sleeve he had touched. “I paid for this suit in full. Since it doesn’t fit you, you don’t need to wear it.” “As for her…” I coldly glanced at the loose gown on Lucia. “She doesn’t deserve to wear my wedding dress. Take it off.” Lucia’s face instantly turned ugly. She looked at Blake with grievance. “Blake, is Vivian angry with me? I’ll take it off. At worst, I won’t wear a wedding dress tomorrow…” As she spoke, she began to unzip the back. Her hands trembled as if she might faint at any moment. Blake was completely enraged. He stepped in front of Lucia. “Vivian Shaw, are you crazy? Do you have to embarrass us in front of strangers?” “It’s just a stupid wedding dress. Lucia wearing it is giving you face.” “If you dare take the gown away today, this wedding is off.” He was certain I wouldn’t dare. For three years, whenever he used breaking up as a threat, I always gave in. I watched the associate place the damaged gown into a garment bag. Taking it, I turned without hesitation and walked out. “Fine.” I left him with my back. “Then it’s off.” Behind me came Blake’s disbelieving roar. “Vivian Shaw! If you walk out that door, don’t ever expect me to beg you to come back.” I opened the door and did not look back. Once in the car, I tossed the wedding gown onto the passenger seat. I took a photo and sent it to Warren. “Warren, the size needs some adjustment. Tailor it to your measurements.” Very soon, a reply popped up. Vivian, remember to switch the lead wedding car to a Maybach tomorrow. Lucia isn’t used to riding in a Rolls-Royce. Looking at Blake’s message, I almost laughed from anger. He truly mistook my patience for permission to trample me. I did not reply. I locked the screen and started the car. Halfway down the road, Blake called. I put him on speaker. “Why aren’t you replying? Where are you?” His tone still carried that lofty interrogation. “Does it matter?” I looked at the red light ahead and stepped on the brake. “Of course it matters. Lucia said she was frightened just now and has a terrible headache.” “Go to the city hospital and book a specialist appointment for her. Get the imported medicine.” “And stop by the private kitchen in Eastside to pick up seafood porridge. She has no appetite.” I quietly listened to his absurd demands. Tomorrow was the wedding. As the woman who was supposed to be the bride, I should have been confirming the wedding process and comforting elders. Instead, my fiancé was ordering me to buy medicine and porridge for his first love. “I’m not going.” My voice was cold. Blake’s voice immediately rose. “Vivian Shaw, can’t you even do this one thing?” “Do you understand this could be life or death? If anything happens to Lucia, I’ll never forgive you.” “Which intersection are you at? I’ll send you the location. Go there right now.” I sneered. “Blake Foster, I’m your fiancée, not your hired caregiver.” “Whether she lives or dies has nothing to do with me.” There was a strange silence on the other end for two seconds. Then Blake’s voice came, suppressing anger. “Fine, Vivian. Very good.” “Do you think I can’t hold the wedding without you?” “Let me tell you. If you don’t show up at the church entrance on time tomorrow to greet guests, don’t expect to see me ever again.” With a snap, he hung up. Greet guests? He actually wanted me to be the reception attendant at Lucia’s wedding. I tossed my phone aside, turned the car around, and drove toward the Foster Group building. Warren’s office was on the top floor. When I pushed the door open, he was looking down at several documents. Hearing footsteps, he raised his head. A trace of a smile flashed in his deep eyes. “Bride-to-be. Here to inspect my work?” I tossed my car keys onto the coffee table and sat across from him. “Here to confirm tomorrow’s schedule.” Warren closed the file folder and leaned back in his chair. “I’ve arranged everything with the hotel. Security for Pullman Hall has also been replaced with my people.” “I guarantee not even one blind fly will get in.” He paused, gaze falling on my face. “What about Blake? Has he noticed yet?” I picked up the cold water on the table and took a sip. “His mind is full of Lucia’s brain tumor right now. He has no time for anything else.” As we spoke, my phone screen lit up. A message from Lucia. I opened it. It was a photo. Lucia sat on the wedding bed that had belonged to Blake and me, wearing that obviously oversized wedding gown. On the nightstand were my skincare products and custom cup. Caption: Borrowing everything from my sister. Thank you, Vivian, for your generosity. Blake says I’m the most beautiful woman in the world. Looking at the screen, nausea rose in my stomach. Warren noticed and walked over to glance at the screen. He let out a cold scoff. “For a cheap little drama queen like this, Blake must be blind to treat her like treasure.” “But I am curious. How does a woman with late-stage brain cancer and a headache so bad she’s dying have the energy to take such pretentious photos?” I exited the chat. I had already investigated Lucia’s illness. It was just a forged medical record bought for twenty thousand. But I did not expose it. When people are dancing on the edge of an abyss, they hate nothing more than being interrupted. I wanted Blake to fall from the highest place. “No need to bother with her.” I stood and smoothed my skirt. “I’ve arranged the motorcade for tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at eight in the morning.” Warren looked at me, then suddenly stepped forward and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Vivian, after tomorrow, you’ll have no way back.” “I know.” I looked into his eyes. “I never take the road back.” By the time I left Foster Group, the sky had gone completely dark. I returned to the hotel and checked into a suite. I had just showered when Blake’s messages came again. Not concern. Only command after command. “Vivian, don’t be late tomorrow morning.” “Lucia isn’t in good health and can’t stand for too long. You’ll need to handle the greeting and toasting process for her.” “Also, she has a lot of relatives. Give up your seat at the main table.” The morning of the wedding, the whole city was covered in a thin layer of fog. I changed into the brand-new couture handmade wedding gown Warren had prepared for me. The fit was perfect, without a single crease. Standing before the full-length mirror, I looked at the cool, elegant woman inside and fastened a pearl necklace around my neck. My phone was still vibrating wildly. When I opened the screen, dozens of messages nearly flooded the chat. All from Blake. “Vivian, where are you? Why aren’t you at the hotel yet?” “Lucia’s wedding dress is too big. Why didn’t you have it altered yesterday? Are you deliberately trying to embarrass her?” “Go replace the photo at the reception desk with one of me and Lucia. Hurry.” “Where the hell are you? Get over here and be Lucia’s bridesmaid.” Looking at those words, I found them absurd. Even now, he still believed I would come when called and leave when dismissed. That he could step on my dignity to satisfy his ridiculous “compassion.” I did not reply. I turned off my phone and left the suite. The Emerald Hall on the hotel’s second floor was the venue Blake had changed to at the last minute yesterday. Originally, I had booked the most luxurious Pullman Hall on the top floor. But Blake said Lucia was afraid of heights. He also said Pullman Hall was too large and made Lucia’s family look too few, not warm enough. I played along and gave him Emerald Hall. I kept Pullman Hall for myself. When I passed the entrance to Emerald Hall, I stopped. The doors were wide open. It was noisy inside. On the welcome sign, the words “Celebrating the Marriage of Lucia Lane and Blake Foster” stung my eyes. Although I had been prepared, seeing it in person still felt ironic. Several shabbily dressed aunties were gathered around the dessert table, stuffing macarons into their pockets without shame. Lucia wore the ill-fitting wedding dress and leaned against Blake, enjoying his concerned attention. “Vivian!” Lucia’s eyes were sharp. She was the first to see me at the door. She straightened, adjusted her veil, and strode toward me. The smugness on her lips could not be hidden. “You finally came. I thought you wouldn’t dare show up today.” She looked me up and down, her gaze flashing with jealousy when she saw my new wedding dress. Then she changed back to that fake smile. “Oh my, isn’t your gown a little too grand?” “People who don’t know might think you’re the bride.” She patted my shoulder and lowered her voice so only we could hear. “Vivian, thank you for lending me your husband.” “The man you raised for three years looks so handsome in formalwear. Tonight, I’ll experience him properly on your behalf.” I quietly watched her performance, my gaze like I was looking at a dead person. Blake also came running over. Seeing me, his brows tightened. His voice was full of reproach. “Where have you been? Why didn’t you answer your phone?” “Didn’t I tell you to pick up Lucia’s second uncle? He came by cab and complained the whole way.” “And why are you dressed like this? Trying to steal the spotlight? Hurry backstage and change. Just wear a normal dress.” I looked at the man I had loved for three years. For him, I gave up a chance to go abroad. For him, I cooked soup late at night. For him, I personally arranged every corner of the wedding home. Now, he wanted me to wear an ordinary dress and serve his first love. “No need.” I stepped back, avoiding the hand he reached out to pull me with. “I’m not staying here.” Blake froze. Then fury rushed up. “Vivian Shaw, what kind of fit are you throwing now? The wedding is about to start.” “You’re making trouble at this exact moment just to embarrass Lucia, aren’t you?” “I’m telling you, whether you want to or not, you will finish the process today.” Looking at his enraged face, I suddenly smiled. The smile did not reach my eyes. “Blake Foster, you seem to have misunderstood something.” I adjusted my gloves, my voice cold. “I didn’t come here to attend your wedding.” “I came to get married at my own.”

1 I had worked on Ronan Shaw’s cars for seven years. From the days when my phone was always smeared with motor oil to the day I became one of the top custom tuners in the country, I was there for all of it. The year he won the national championship, I asked him once, “Can I sit in your passenger seat just one time? Just one run down Mount Akina?” He didn’t even stop wiping his wrench. “Racing is dangerous. You get carsick. Not suitable.” I said okay. And I never asked again. Until last night, when I was fixing his computer and a hidden cloud folder popped up. Inside was a video. In the video, he was taking his first love, Celine Rowe, on a high-speed drift through a mountain road. Celine sat in the passenger seat screaming and laughing, while he controlled the wheel with one hand and gripped hers tightly with the other. The caption read: “The fastest heartbeat belongs to the girl I love most.” I closed the laptop gently. At dawn, I tuned his engine one last time as usual. Then I submitted my resignation from the team and signed a base-salary contract with an overseas racing team. Seven years. I was done waiting for his passenger seat. I was going to hold the steering wheel myself. … “Hex wrench. Hand it to me.” I slid halfway out from under the car and reached blindly. Ronan was standing near the hood, head lowered as he replied to messages. He didn’t spare me so much as a glance. The new apprentice fumbled and shoved the tool into my hand. “I stiffened the left front suspension damping by two clicks,” I said, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my oil-stained hand. “The Velocity Cup qualifiers are the day after tomorrow. Don’t cut the corners too tight. The tires will slide.” Ronan finally tucked his phone into the pocket of his racing suit. He walked to the driver’s door, glanced with disgust at the spot I had just touched, and wiped it with his sleeve. “Got it. Your parameters have gotten more and more conservative lately.” “Conservative keeps you alive.” “Enough. You always use that to pressure me.” He opened the door. “I’m going to test the south mountain route later. I won’t be back tonight.” “Okay.” My quick answer made his hand pause on the seat belt. Before, whenever he ran the mountain roads at night, I would argue with him until the very last second. I checked the spare tires three times, attached a tracker to his helmet, and placed a bottle of the ice water he liked in the passenger seat. Today, I just packed the toolbox without looking at him. “What’s wrong with you today? Cat got your tongue?” He tapped the window with a frown. “I’m a little tired.” “You sit in the garage all day and never see the sun. Your body just lacks exercise.” The passenger-side glove compartment hadn’t been shut properly. A flash of pink slid out. It was a tiny rabbit-shaped air freshener. Ronan hated any scent in his car. Once, I put in a lemongrass charcoal deodorizer, and he threw it out the window. My phone lit up on the workbench. A notification popped up. Sender: Celine. “Ronan, remember to take me on the mountain run tonight. I’m already waiting at the south route entrance!” Ronan snatched up the phone fast. The screen light reflected the excitement in his eyes. He replied with one hand, not even fastening his seat belt properly. “Sponsor contact?” I asked, staring at the pink air freshener. He flipped the phone screen-down. “Yeah. Celine Rowe. The company’s new navigator. She just came back from abroad. I’m taking her to familiarize her with the route.” “A navigator doesn’t need to sit in the passenger seat for a night mountain run.” “Theory is theory. Practice is practice. You don’t understand racing, so stop ordering people around.” I watched him start the engine. The V8 engine I had refined thousands of times roared perfectly. But all I felt now was that it was loud. “Ronan.” “What now?” His face was full of impatience. “Do you remember what next Wednesday is?” He revved the engine. “Next Wednesday? Sponsors are coming to watch the test drive. What about it?” “Nothing.” Next Wednesday was the seventh anniversary of the day we founded the team together. Seven years ago, he had crashed. I dug him out of the wrecked car with my bare hands. He told me, “For the rest of my life, my passenger seat will always be yours.” He had forgotten completely. “I’m leaving. Don’t wait up.” The sports car shot out. The garage fell back into dead silence. I walked to the computer, opened the resignation email I had written the night before, and clicked send. Then I opened another page in English and confirmed my base-salary driver contract with a foreign Dakar Rally team. Seven days later, I would fly to that deathly desert. My phone vibrated in my pocket. My best friend, Tessa Cole, called. “I saw your resignation email. Are you insane? You’re just handing him seven years of your work?” “The team contract was always under his name. I can’t take it with me.” “And what about that bastard Ronan? You’re just letting him and that first-love drama queen have their happy ending?” “Trash belongs in the trash can.” I looked at the oil stain still on the floor. “Tessa, have you ever seen him drift one-handed?” “What?” “It’s cool. Even the smile at the corner of his eyes is arrogant.” I threw the bloodied gauze into the trash. “Too bad he was showing off for Celine.” The next morning, I called a truck from the recycling station and started clearing out every trace of myself from the garage. The custom wrenches hanging on the wall had been saved up one by one over the years. I had scrimped and saved to buy them. I told the workers to pack them all up and weigh them as scrap metal. The rest room was tiny. Just a single bed and a wardrobe. The wardrobe was filled with his racing suits, fireproof masks, and jeans that would never lose the smell of oil. My belongings were only a few faded T-shirts. I stuffed them into my backpack. In the corner sat a glossy black carbon-fiber helmet. He had bought it after winning a divisional championship and said he would take me for a drive. I picked it up. On the lining inside, someone had drawn an ugly little turtle in marker. Beside it were the letters C.R. Celine Rowe. I grabbed a hammer, smashed the visor, and kicked it into the trash pile. At three in the afternoon, the screech of brakes sounded outside the rolling shutter. Ronan walked in carrying a shopping bag. He smelled faintly sweet, like the rabbit air freshener from last night. He looked around at the empty tool wall. “Where did you put the wrenches?” “They were rusty. Sold them as scrap.” “The qualifiers are almost here and you sold the tools? What the hell has gotten into you lately?” “I won’t need them anymore.” He tossed the shopping bag onto my workbench. “I stayed up all night, and when I get back there isn’t even hot water waiting. Are you deliberately picking a fight?” “There’s water in the dispenser. You can pour it yourself.” He kicked over an empty oil drum. “Willa Lane! Who are you putting on this dead face for?” “I’m not.” “You’re not? Then what is this cold war? Yesterday I posted on social media and you didn’t even like it.” I looked at the corner of the item peeking out of the shopping bag. A pair of women’s Alpinestars racing gloves. XS. White and pink. Celine’s favorite colors. Her size too. “Are these gloves for me?” He froze and quickly reached to cover them. “No. Sponsor sample. Wrong size. Your hands are small, so I brought them back.” “I don’t wear pink.” His face immediately darkened. “You went through my bag? Celine made my navigation notes. I got her something in return. What’s wrong with that? Do you have to be so petty?” “I only said I don’t wear pink. I didn’t mention her name.” “The way you talk in circles is disgusting.” He irritably tugged open the zipper of his racing suit. “She’s a navigator. She needs to protect her hands for work. Is it wrong for me to take care of a colleague?” “You take very good care of her.” I stood and wiped my hands clean. “Ronan, I’ve locked all the suspension settings on this car. Find someone else to tune it.” “Willa Lane, try walking out of this garage today!” He exploded behind me. “I came back dead tired. Can you be sensible for once? Don’t make me feel like I raised an ungrateful stray for seven years.” Sensible. I gave up my path as a racer for him and ruined my neck staying up to tune his cars. In the end, I was an ungrateful stray. I shouldered my bag and walked into the wind without looking back. Over the next two days, I cut off every connection with the team. I closed the joint account, listed the air purifier on a secondhand site, and left the garage key on the workbench. Ronan noticed none of it. He only thought I was playing hard to get, that I had finally learned not to interfere with him. On Friday morning, he wore a newly customized team uniform and leaned against the car door, smoking. “Tonight Celine officially signs with the team. We booked Blue Harbor for her welcome dinner. You’re coming with me.” “What would I go for?” “Haven’t you always complained that the team dinners don’t include you? Sponsors will be there tonight. Go see the world for once. Don’t spend every day dressed like a mechanic.” Before, when I begged him to take me to meet people in the industry so I could help him secure sponsorships, he said: “They’re all important people. You’d embarrass me if you showed up smelling like oil.” Now he wanted me there because Celine was the star of the night. And he needed an audience. “Fine.” I might as well watch the whole show with my own eyes. At eight that night, inside the VIP room at Blue Harbor. When the door opened, over a dozen drivers and sponsors were already seated. Celine sat in the main seat, wearing a tight motorcycle suit and the pink Alpinestars gloves. “Ronan, Willa’s here!” She immediately stood and came toward me with a bright smile. “Hi, Willa. Ronan said you usually never leave the garage. What a rare guest.” She reached out to shake my hand. I did not move. “Congratulations on joining the team,” I said lightly. The laughter in the room paused for a second. Ronan yanked me aside and lowered his voice. “Don’t embarrass me tonight.” After a few rounds of drinks, every conversation circled around Ronan and Celine. One sponsor raised his glass and laughed. “Ronan, you’ve finally found your soulmate. That south route video last night was insane. That drift through the curve was silky smooth. Celine is the perfect navigator.” Celine covered her mouth and smiled. “It was all Ronan. That death curve last night nearly made my heart stop. Ronan held the wheel with one hand and held my hand with the other. He told me, ‘I’m here. Close your eyes.’ At that moment, I really felt like my life was worth placing in his hands.” The whole table erupted in teasing. Ronan laughed along, his gaze indulgent and without the slightest attempt to avoid suspicion. I stared at the strong liquor in front of me. Death curve. When he first ran that route years ago, a storm made him lose control. I lay in the mud for three hours, blocking the fuel tank that was about to explode, and dragged him out with my own hands. What he gave me back then was: “Get lost. Don’t block my way.” So he did know how to say, I’m here. “Willa, don’t you usually take care of Ronan?” Celine suddenly turned to me. “Ronan has an old waist injury. Yesterday I saw him get on the track without a support belt and felt so bad for him. You’re his mechanic. How could you miss a detail like that?” Her tone was sweet. Her words landed like a slap. The table went quiet. “You mean the old injury on his waist?” I looked up at her. Celine froze. I picked up the glass and slowly rubbed the rim with my fingertips. “That injury was from a rollover on the south route six years ago. Compression fracture of the third lumbar vertebra. He couldn’t bear weight for six months after surgery. It aches on rainy days. Yes, he should wear a support belt, but not only when you suddenly remember during a low-intensity route test.” The room fell completely silent. I looked at the pink gloves on her hands. “If you truly cared about him, you should have reminded him to slow down while you were in the passenger seat yesterday, not closed your eyes at the death curve.” Celine’s smile stiffened. I continued, “A navigator doesn’t sit in the passenger seat waiting to be protected. Route notes, braking points, entry speed, exit angle. If you misjudge any of them, the person crippled won’t only be the driver.” Her eyes instantly reddened. “Willa, I was only worried about Ronan. Why would you say that to me…” Ronan snatched the glass from my hand and slammed it onto the table. “Celine just joined the team. She doesn’t understand these things yet. Did you have to humiliate her in front of everyone?” I looked at the way he stood protectively in front of her and suddenly found it funny. “If she doesn’t understand, she can learn. But you know perfectly well you have an old injury, and you still risked your life acting out some romantic scene with her. Ronan, if one day you end up disabled, don’t blame anyone for not warning you.” Celine’s tears finally fell. Ronan laughed from sheer fury. “Are you cursing me?” “I’m just telling the truth the way you like to.” “Willa Lane! Are you insane?” Ronan shot to his feet. “Everyone came out to have fun, and you have to act like a shrew and ruin the mood?” “I ruined the mood?” I grabbed the ice bucket from the table and poured it out without hesitation. Ice water mixed with alcohol splashed across the fruit platter in front of Celine and soaked her clothes. “Ah!” Celine screamed and jumped up. “That,” I said, dropping the bucket, “is ruining the mood.” Under everyone’s stunned gaze, I opened the door and left. Seven years of rotten debt ended there. That night, Ronan did not come looking for me. At two in the morning, Celine posted a photo. Ronan was draping his jacket over her shoulders. The caption read: “Someone was afraid I’d get cold and insisted on staying with me until now.” I looked at the photo, and the last absurd thought in my heart went out. In seven years, it wasn’t that he didn’t understand tenderness. He just refused to give it to me. The next afternoon, Ronan kicked open the garage door. He reeked of smoke and alcohol, his eyes dark. “You got bold last night, huh? Embarrassing me in front of all the sponsors?” I was at the computer checking visa documents for the overseas team. I ignored him. “Are you deaf?” He strode over and yanked out the power cord. The screen went black. I leaned back in my chair. “What do you want?” He pulled a card from his pocket and threw it onto the desk. “Stop playing hard to get. I know what you’re mad about. Celine stole your spotlight, right?” He pointed to the card. “Next Wednesday. Passenger-seat experience for the Velocity Cup exhibition race. The organizers originally reserved it for Celine, but I went through a lot of trouble to get it for you. Didn’t you always want to sit in my passenger seat? Here.” I lowered my eyes. It was the main event of the national live broadcast. Every camera would be aimed at that car. He was tossing me the chance originally meant for Celine’s publicity like a handout. “You don’t want it?” He sneered. “Willa Lane, don’t be ungrateful. Do you know how many people would fight for this spot? I only made Celine give it up for you because of our seventh anniversary.” “You wronged her,” I said, looking up. “What?” “I said, give the spot back to her. I find it dirty.” Ronan’s face turned livid. “Willa Lane! I’m giving you a way out and you insist on making this ugly? You think my car can’t race without you? Who do you think you are?” “Who I am isn’t important. The door is over there. Close it on your way out.” He kicked over the jack beside him. Metal crashed heavily against the floor. “Fine. Don’t regret it. When the time comes, even if you kneel and beg me, I won’t let you touch my car again.” He slammed the door and left. I bent down to set the jack upright. My knee knocked against the floor and bruised. But compared to giving up my racing dream, this little pain was nothing. Next Wednesday was also the day my resignation officially took effect. The day I left for Dakar. I dragged my black suitcase to the international airport. My flight was at four in the afternoon. On the huge screen in the waiting area, the Velocity Cup exhibition race was being broadcast live. The commentator’s voice nearly broke with excitement. “Ronan Shaw has appeared! Ronan is in peak condition today! Viewers, please look at his passenger seat!” The camera zoomed in. Inside the red-and-black top-tier race car, Ronan sat in the driver’s seat. And in his passenger seat sat a woman wearing a pink helmet and a tight racing suit. Celine. She formed a heart at the camera while Ronan leaned over and personally tightened her seat belt. I looked at the screen and suddenly smiled. So the so-called seat he gave me had been a lie from start to finish. He no longer even bothered to lie properly. “They look so in love. Is that Ronan’s girlfriend?” two young women beside me whispered. “Definitely. A driver’s passenger seat is his life. Only his wife gets to sit there.” The boarding announcement for Paris sounded over the speakers. I tore the old team pass from my neck, the one I had kept for seven years, and threw it into the recycling bin. At the gate, I checked in. The plane rushed into the sky. At thirty thousand feet, there was no reek of engine oil, no roar of motors. Ronan, someone else is sitting in your precious passenger seat now. And I am going to hold the steering wheel that truly belongs to me.

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1 My husband has hyperthymesia. He possesses a highly superior autobiographical memory. He can recall the exact weather of a random Tuesday twenty years ago, but he has forgotten my birthday for five consecutive years. Whenever I brought it up, he would give me a blank look. “Is it coming up? Next week?” My birthday was last week. I used to joke with my best friend Sasha that even a genius brain had its glitches. Until the day I was cleaning his study. I found a folder on his desktop named “Health Tracker.” I opened it. It was completely filled with the personal data of a woman named Piper. Her menstrual cycle was tracked to the exact decimal point. The average was 29.3 days. Her cramp severity was marked with a red star. Level three, requires painkillers and a heating pad. Her ovulation window was highlighted in bright red, with a note written right next to it. She gets emotionally sensitive these days. Watch your tone. The last update was logged exactly three days ago. I knew Piper. She was his gym buddy. They went to lift weights together every Wednesday. I sat on the hardwood floor of his study and read through all thirty seven pages of logs. Thirty seven months. He never missed a single month. His hyperthymesia had absolutely no glitches. The only glitch was my place in his heart. I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw a fit. I didn’t even cry. I simply decided to vanish on the very next date he was destined to forget. … “You touched my computer?” Drew stood in the doorway of the study, a damp gym towel in his hand. The air smelled faintly of coconut water. It was Piper’s favorite post workout drink. I tossed my cleaning rag into the bucket and stood up. “I was wiping the desk and bumped the mouse.” Drew frowned slightly. He took a few quick strides to the computer and glanced at the monitor. I had already reverted the screen back to the locked desktop. He quietly let out a sigh of relief. His tone immediately shifted back to his usual casual arrogance. “How many times do I have to tell you not to touch things in my office?” “If you lose some of my data, you cannot afford to replace it.” I stared at the side of his face. Those thirty seven pages of menstrual logs were certainly precious. Precious enough that he needed to verify the decimals perfectly. I didn’t say a word. I picked up the water bucket and walked out. As I passed the living room, the smart home speaker on the TV stand suddenly lit up with a blue ring. The mechanical female voice echoed loudly in the quiet room. “Linked account ‘Piper’ syncing smartwatch data.” “Current heart rate 120. You are in the fat burn zone.” “Estimated arrival in the basement parking garage in ten minutes.” I stopped in my tracks. Drew walked out of the study, drying his hair with the towel while looking right at me. “Her car is in the shop, so I gave her a ride back,” he said. “She is just grabbing a few clean gym outfits and then she will leave.” He explained it so naturally. There was absolutely no panic in his eyes. It was as if the smart speaker wasn’t announcing the biometric data of another woman, but rather giving the local weather forecast. I turned around and looked at him. “Even the backend of our smart home system is linked to her watch?” Drew paused his towel drying. “We work out together. Sharing data just keeps us accountable.” “Hazel, please stop obsessing over trivial nonsense all day. If you actually hit the gym, I would link yours too.” I let out a soft laugh. Last month, my blood sugar plummeted and I passed out on the kitchen floor. When I finally woke up, I asked him if we could add me as an emergency contact on the smart home hub. He told me the system was too cluttered and prone to false alarms. He told me to just take better care of my own body. But now, Piper’s heart rate simply goes up a fraction, and the entire house announces her arrival. “No need,” I said, looking away. Drew seemed very satisfied with my calm reaction. He walked over and sat on the couch. “What are we having for dinner? Piper mentioned she wants a lean meal tonight. Just boil some chicken breast for her.” “Add extra black pepper. Her appetite hasn’t been great lately.” My fingers tightened their grip on the rim of the plastic bucket. A specific annotation from those thirty seven pages flashed into my mind. Day three of ovulation. Appetite decreases. Add heavy spices to her meals. So his hyperthymesia wasn’t just used to memorize dates. It was used to turn him into her personal caretaker. “I didn’t buy chicken,” I said. Drew frowned. “Isn’t there some left in the fridge?” “It expired. I threw it out.” His face darkened instantly. “Hazel, what exactly is your problem lately?” “Piper is just coming over for a quick dinner. Do you really need to give us attitude?” “Are you still throwing a tantrum and finding reasons to start drama just because I forgot your birthday last month?” I looked at his self righteous face. It had been five years. Every single time he forgot my birthday, he would gaslight me to cover up his own guilt. I used to feel wronged. I used to argue. Now, I was just completely exhausted. The doorbell rang. Drew kept a cold expression as he walked over to open the door. Piper stood in the hallway wearing a skin tight yoga set, holding two cups of iced milk tea. “Hey Hazel, sorry for crashing your night!” She smiled sweetly. There was a thin layer of glistening sweat on her forehead. “Drew told me you make the best healthy dinners, so I shamelessly came over to beg for food.” Drew took the drinks from her hands. “She didn’t cook anything. She said she threw the chicken out.” Piper blinked in surprise, but the look she shot me contained a very clear hint of knowing triumph. “Oh no, is Hazel mad at me?” “I told you, Drew! If you spend every day lifting weights with me, your wife is going to get jealous.” She playfully swatted Drew on the shoulder. “This is all your fault. You only remember my stats, but you can’t even keep track of the groceries in your own fridge.” Drew didn’t show a single ounce of annoyance at her physical touch. He turned to look at me, his tone shifting into a direct command. “Go downstairs to the supermarket and buy some right now. It is still open.” I set the water bucket down on the floor. A few drops splashed onto my slippers. “If you want to eat, buy it yourself.” Drew looked utterly furious. Piper immediately grabbed his arm to hold him back. “Never mind, never mind. Drew, let’s just order delivery.” “Hazel must be so tired from doing chores around the house all day. Let’s not force her.” She deliberately emphasized the word “chores.” In her mind, I was just a woman with no identity. I was just a live in maid meant to serve Drew. Drew let out a cold scoff. “What is she tired from? She sits around the house all day and can’t even manage a simple dinner.” I watched them standing in the entryway. They looked exactly like a married couple sharing an inside joke. I turned around and walked toward the bedroom. “Do whatever you want.” Early the next morning, I received a call from the hospital. My father’s attending doctor told me the next round of his targeted therapy medication needed to be paid for. Four thousand dollars. I opened my banking app, ready to use the joint debit card linked to our shared emergency fund. We usually kept our finances separate. We only touched this specific account for major family emergencies. I typed in the password. A notification popped up on the screen. Insufficient funds. I froze. I clicked into the transaction history. Yesterday afternoon at three o’clock, someone swiped exactly four thousand and five hundred dollars. The vendor was a high end outdoor sports boutique. I stared at the screen for a very long time. My chest felt like it was stuffed with wet cotton. It was so heavy I couldn’t breathe. I dialed Drew’s number. It rang for a long time before he finally picked up. The background noise was loud. The distinct clanking of heavy iron plates. “What is it?” he asked, his voice slightly out of breath. “Where is the money from our emergency fund?” I asked. The line went quiet for a second. “Oh. Piper has a trail running race next month. Her gear needed a major upgrade.” “She is tight on cash right now, so I fronted it for her.” The knuckles of the hand gripping my phone turned completely white. “Drew, that is my dad’s medical money.” He clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Why are you calling it medical money? Your dad’s condition is chronic. A few days won’t make a difference.” “Piper’s race is next week. The gear cannot wait.” “I will put the money back next week when my bonus hits. Why are you panicking?” I listened to his casual, dismissive tone. My father’s life saving medication was somehow less important than a set of trail running gear for his gym buddy. “Transfer the money back to me.” My voice was quiet, but absolutely rigid. “Right now.” Drew lost his temper. “Hazel, do you not understand English?” “I said I will put it back in a few days. Do you have to ruin the mood right now?” “Piper is standing right next to me. Can you give me a little bit of respect?” Before I could say another word, Piper’s voice drifted through the speaker. “Drew, is that Hazel?” “Oh my gosh, please don’t fight with her. I told you I didn’t need you to cover it. Hazel is going to get the wrong idea.” “Hazel, please don’t be mad. Treat this as a loan. I will pay you back as soon as I finish the race and win the prize money.” Her words sounded so reasonable on the surface. But every single syllable was designed to show off the fact that Drew was willing to drop thousands of dollars on her without a second thought. Drew immediately chimed in. “Don’t listen to her, Piper. She is probably just hitting early menopause. Always starting drama over nothing.” He hung up. The phone line went dead, leaving only the dial tone echoing in my ear. I stood in the hospital corridor, looking out the window at the gloomy, overcast sky. I took a deep breath and paid for the medication using my private savings account. That money was supposed to cover my half of the mortgage next month. After paying the bill, I walked into the hospital room. My mother was peeling an apple for my dad. She quickly stood up when she saw me. “Hazel, honey. Why are you here today? Where is Drew?” “He is busy at work.” I forced a smile onto my face. My dad lay in the bed, his face pale and sunken. “Drew works hard. You need to be understanding. It is not easy for a man to build a career.” “As long as you two are happy, I have nothing to worry about.” I looked into my dad’s cloudy, tired eyes. My throat felt like it was lined with broken glass. “I know, Dad.” I stayed at the hospital for the entire afternoon before taking the subway home. I pushed the front door open. The living room lights were blazing. Drew was sitting on the couch playing a video game. Piper was wearing a brand new, elite trail running outfit. She was posing in front of the full length floor mirror, taking selfies with her phone. It was the exact gear paid for by my father’s medical money. When Piper saw me walk in, she lowered her phone and walked over with a bright smile. “Hey Hazel! How is your dad doing?” “Drew said older people are prone to minor aches and pains, and told me not to stress too much about it.” I stared at the gear she was wearing. Premium fabric. A perfectly tailored fit. “Take it off,” I said flatly. The air in the living room instantly froze. Drew threw his controller onto the couch and stood up, walking toward us. “Hazel, what kind of crazy episode are you having now?” I didn’t even look at him. I kept my eyes locked on Piper. “That outfit was bought using my emergency debit card. Take it off.” Piper’s face shifted. She instinctively took a step back, hiding behind Drew’s shoulder. “Drew, what does she mean?” “Does she just hate looking at me?” Drew immediately shielded Piper behind his back. “Hazel, stop embarrassing yourself.” “My money is in that joint account too. I can spend it on whoever I want.” “You eat my food and live in my house, and now you are nickel and diming me?” I stared into his completely self righteous eyes. Every single month, I deposited exactly half of my paycheck into that account. I paid the down payment on this house. We split the mortgage equally. Yet in his mind, I was just a freeloader eating his food and living under his roof. “Drew, did your hyperthymesia make you forget your conscience too?” His face went rigid. He raised his hand, pointing a finger right at my face. Piper quickly reached out and pushed his arm down. “Stop arguing, please! This is all my fault.” “Hazel, I will just give the clothes back to you. Please don’t be mad at Drew.” She reached for the zipper of the jacket. Drew grabbed her hand to stop her. “Do not take it off. I want to see who dares to touch you today.” He turned his head, glaring at me with pure venom. “Hazel, you need to learn your place.” After that night, Drew initiated a one sided cold war for three days. He didn’t speak a word to me. He even slept in the study. On the afternoon of the fourth day, I was out on the balcony bringing the laundry in. He walked through the front door, holding a glossy, premium jewelry catalog in his hand. He walked up behind me and tossed the thick booklet onto the coffee table. “This necklace suits her, don’t you think?” I stopped folding the clothes and turned around. The catalog was opened to a specific page. It displayed a gorgeous, five figure diamond necklace. Tomorrow was our fifth wedding anniversary. For a split second, my mind played a trick on me. I genuinely thought he had finally remembered the date, even if his delivery was still incredibly arrogant. “It’s alright,” I said quietly. Drew nodded in satisfaction. “Piper’s trail race finishes tomorrow. She said she is aiming for a top spot on the podium.” “This is her victory gift. She has a long, elegant neck. It will look beautiful on her.” The hand holding the plastic hanger froze in midair. The warmth drained out of my fingertips. An icy chill rushed through my veins, settling deep into my heart. It wasn’t an anniversary gift. It was Piper’s victory reward. I looked at Drew. His head was down, carefully studying the carat weight of the diamond on the page. “Drew, do you have any idea what tomorrow is?” I asked. He didn’t even look up. “Piper’s victory dinner. The race finishes at two in the afternoon. I booked a table at that upscale steakhouse for four.” “Oh, right. Just figure out your own dinner at home. I won’t be back to eat.” He said it so casually. His hyperthymesia allowed him to remember the weather twenty years ago. It allowed him to perfectly track Piper’s menstrual cycle. But it completely erased the day we signed our marriage license. “Okay,” I said. Drew finally looked up at me. He seemed slightly surprised that I wasn’t throwing a tantrum this time. “Glad you finally learned how to behave. I will transfer that money back to your card in a couple of days.” “Stop staring at the bank accounts like a miserable housewife.” He picked up the catalog and walked back into his study. I stood on the balcony, watching the pedestrians strolling along the sidewalk below. The wind blowing against my face carried the sharp chill of late autumn. I turned around, walked into the bedroom, and pulled a small, twenty inch black suitcase from the bottom of the closet. I unzipped it. The inside was completely empty. I started placing things inside, one by one. Two sets of clean clothes. A few basic skincare items. My passport and ID. I picked up my jewelry box. Inside sat the two carat diamond ring Drew bought me when he proposed. He had said, “Hazel, my memory is too perfect. So I am going to carve my promise to you into my brain, and I will never, ever forget.” I looked at the ring, then gently snapped the velvet lid shut. I left it right there on the vanity. I didn’t need it anymore. By the time I finished, the suitcase was barely half full. After five years of marriage, this was the only amount of life I was taking with me. That night, Drew came out of the study to get a glass of water. When he saw me sitting quietly on the couch, he frowned. “Why are you acting so weird and passive aggressive these last few days?” “I am just buying Piper a necklace. She works hard to survive in this city on her own.” “You are my wife. Can’t you be a little more gracious about this?” I didn’t look up at him. “I am not being ungracious.” Drew scoffed. The phone in his pocket vibrated. He immediately pulled it out. The glow of the screen illuminated a subtle, genuine smile spreading across his lips. I didn’t know what Piper texted him, but he didn’t even bother drinking his water. He turned right around and hurried back into the study. Early the next morning. Drew put on his bespoke gray suit. It was the suit he reserved exclusively for meeting his most vital corporate clients. Today, he was wearing it to attend Piper’s victory lunch. He stood in the entryway putting on his dress shoes. “I am heading out. Don’t wait up for me tonight.” I stood in the center of the living room, staring at his back. “Drew,” I called out. He looked back over his shoulder, his eyes flashing with raw impatience. “What now?” “Take the trash out on your way down,” I said. He paused, then let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Hazel, you are completely out of your mind.” But he still picked up the black trash bag sitting by the door. The front door slammed shut. I looked at the clock hanging on the wall. Eight in the morning. I walked into the bedroom and grabbed the handle of my black suitcase. I placed my house keys on the glass coffee table, right underneath that glossy jewelry catalog. I took one final look around the apartment I had lived in for five years. “Make sure you lock the door.” I whispered the words to myself in my mind. At eleven in the morning, I pulled my suitcase into the hospital. My dad had just finished his IV drip. He looked slightly more energetic. My mom jumped in surprise when she saw me rolling a piece of luggage into the room. “Hazel? What is going on? Why do you have a suitcase?” I pushed the suitcase behind the door and forced a bright smile onto my face. “The company is sending me on a business trip out of state for a few days. It was super last minute, so I just dropped by to see you guys before heading to the airport.” My mom looked skeptical. “A business trip? Does Drew know?” “Yeah, he knows. He is just slammed at work today, so he couldn’t drop me off.” I sat down on the edge of the bed and gently held my dad’s frail, thin hand. “Dad, make sure you take your medicine. The doctor said if we stick to the plan, your levels will drop.” My dad nodded with a weak, laboured breath. “Don’t worry about me. Take care of yourself. Since you are traveling, remember to eat on time.” A sharp, painful ache hit the back of my throat. I fought back the tears. I pulled a bank card out of my purse and pressed it into my mother’s hand. “Mom, there is fifteen thousand dollars on this card. The pin is my birthday.” “Keep it. Use it for Dad’s medical bills and whatever supplements he needs. Don’t be stingy with it.” My mother desperately tried to push the card back. “What are you doing? Your father and I have our pensions. We don’t need your money.” “You and Drew have a life to build. Things are expensive. Take it back right now.” I forcefully shoved the card into her coat pocket. “Mom, I earned this money myself. It has absolutely nothing to do with Drew.” “Keep it. It makes me feel safe knowing you have it.” I stayed at the hospital until one in the afternoon. Terrified that if I stayed a minute longer I would break down crying, I made up an excuse and left. Sitting in the back of a taxi heading to the airport, I watched the familiar city streets blurring past the window. My phone vibrated in my palm. It was a screenshot of an Instagram post, sent to me by a mutual friend. In the photo, Piper was wearing that pristine trail running outfit. Resting beautifully against her collarbone was the five figure diamond necklace. She was smiling radiantly. Drew stood right beside her, looking down at her with absolute, undivided focus. The caption read: The ultimate race reward. Thanks to my perfect partner. @Drew In the comments section, Drew had replied with a red heart emoji. I stared at that photo. That look of total devotion used to belong exclusively to me. Now, it had found a new owner. I closed the app and powered my phone completely off. The airport intercom began broadcasting the final boarding call for my flight. I scanned my ticket, walked through security, and didn’t look back once. In this tragic three person movie, I was always cast as the extra. Today, I was voluntarily writing myself out of the script. The moment the plane lifted off the runway, I looked down at the shrinking city below. A single tear finally rolled down my cheek. I cried for the five years of my youth, and the pieces of my heart I had blindly thrown to the dogs.

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1 I canceled our coastal wedding reservation. The manager stared, stunned. “You’re forfeiting a fifteen-thousand-dollar deposit. Shouldn’t we wait for the bride?” I slid the paperwork across the desk, offering a faint, empty smile. “I’m not waiting. She’s busy watching bioluminescent waves with the love of her life.” Amanda and I were together six years. Every summer, she took a “corporate retreat” to the coast, posting one aesthetic shot of the midnight ocean. When I suggested a beach honeymoon, she scoffed. “It’s just water. What’s so great about it?” I believed her until two days ago. Organizing her hard drive, I opened a folder named Tides. Six years. Over three hundred photos. The same man. The same beach. The same midnight sky. Him walking barefoot through surf, glancing back with a brilliant smile. Meanwhile, our only trip was to a neighboring city for wedding dresses. She sat scrolling her phone, blind to the gowns. “They all look the same. Pick one so we can get it over with.” And I’d believed her. The manager handed me the refund receipt. “What about the bridal suite decor? Your custom vow wall is installed.” I pictured that massive silk wall, our names intertwined. My mouth felt heavy. I’d stayed up until 3 a.m., revising the layout seven times. She never glanced at the sketches. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I forced back my tears. “Cancel it all.” My resignation was final. Today was my last day in this city. The tide wouldn’t wait for me, so I was done waiting for it. … “Nolan, did you seriously just nuke your entire beach wedding?” Carter’s voice crackled through the phone the second I stepped out of the resort lobby. The promotional poster for the venue was still standing by the glass doors. It read: Welcome to the Wedding Celebration of Amanda and Nolan. I glanced at it, my footsteps never slowing down. “It is done.” “You poured your heart and soul into planning that. Are you really just walking away?” “Yes.” “Does Amanda even know?” “She is out of town.” Carter went dead silent on the other end of the line for two full seconds. “Is she with Oliver again?” “Yes.” “Man, are you absolutely sure about this? They literally grew up together. They are just childhood friends.” I gripped my car keys so hard the metal bit into my palm. “Do friends secretly take over three hundred pictures of each other at the exact same beach for six years straight?” Carter did not have a response to that. I hung up the phone and opened my messages. I tapped on Amanda’s profile. Three minutes ago, she had sent me a picture. It was the ocean at night. The edge of the crashing waves glowed with a surreal, faint blue light. The caption she typed read: “The bioluminescent waves are much brighter this year.” I stared at those words and felt a hysterical urge to laugh. She had posted a nearly identical picture at this exact same time last year. Back then, I had commented: “That is stunning. When are you going to take me to see it?” She had replied: “It is way too crowded. You would hate it.” But the photos hidden inside that hard drive were not crowded at all. It was just Oliver. Standing by the water, wearing a loose white button-down, running freely along the empty shoreline. Amanda had taken dozens of shots of him just from that one night. Every single picture radiated an absolute, undeniable adoration. One of the digital files even had a hidden note attached to the metadata. Oliver says the waves look like stars falling into the sea. Amanda and I had been together for six years. The most romantic thing she had ever said to me was on the day we booked our marriage license appointment. “Teaming up to get through life together. Sounds pretty good.” When I pulled up to our apartment building, I did not go upstairs right away. I sat alone in the driver’s seat, scrolling endlessly through my phone’s photo gallery. Out of thousands of pictures, I only had twenty-six photos of me and Amanda together. Fifteen of them were from the very first year we started dating. Over the following four years, there were only eleven. Three of those were forced group photos from my company’s annual banquet. She was standing next to me, looking rigid and annoyed, like she had been dragged there against her will. Oliver, on the other hand, had over three hundred. Oliver sitting on the jagged coastal rocks. Oliver lounging in her passenger seat, holding half a cracked coconut. Oliver closing his eyes, letting the sea breeze mess up his hair. Every single one of his summers had been meticulously documented and archived by my fiancée. While every single one of my summers had been spent entirely in waiting. My phone buzzed violently. It was a FaceTime call from Amanda. I answered it. On the screen, she was wearing a floral sundress, the thin straps sitting lightly on her shoulders. Her hair was beautifully tangled by the ocean wind. Behind her was the vibrant chaos of a beachfront night market. “Did you eat dinner yet?” “Yeah.” “I am flying back the day after tomorrow. Keep an eye on the wedding planners for me.” “Okay.” She suddenly glanced off-camera and let out a soft, genuine laugh. I rarely ever saw her smile like that. It was so bright. So incredibly relaxed. “Amanda, the grilled shrimp is ready.” A man’s voice drifted in from outside the frame. Amanda turned her head and called back naturally. “Coming.” When she looked back at the screen, her tone shifted, becoming casual and dismissive. “Oliver is calling me. I have to go.” I asked her directly. “Why is he there with you?” “He has been really depressed lately. I am just keeping him company so he can clear his head.” “Is he depressed every single summer?” Amanda’s brow furrowed in instant irritation. “Nolan, stop being so passive-aggressive. His dad passed away when he was young. The summer is a really tough time for him.” I did not say a word. My dad also passed away in the summer. Amanda knew that. Three years ago, on the anniversary of his death, I practically begged her to drive back to my hometown with me to visit his grave. She told me she was drowning in a work project and could not get away. A few days later, I saw a picture on Oliver’s social media. Amanda was holding an umbrella over his head to shield him from the sun. The caption read: Thank God I have someone to watch the ocean with. Amanda’s voice snapped me back to the present. “Oh, by the way, I bought you a seashell wind chime. Oliver picked it out. He said it would look great hanging on the balcony of our new place.” I stared at her through the glowing screen, and my throat tightened so painfully I could not make a single sound. Even the decorations for my own marital home had to be selected by Oliver. Right before she ended the call, she sighed. “Stop overthinking everything. Just wait for me to get home.” I stared at the black screen for a long time before typing out a single word. “Okay.” Then I got out of the car, walked upstairs, and started packing my life into cardboard boxes. Amanda came home a day early. She dragged her suitcase through the front door, kicking off her heels as she complained. “I am so exhausted. I had to catch the earliest flight out.” I was sitting in the living room in total silence. I did not move to help her. She pulled a crumpled paper bag out of her tote and tossed it onto the coffee table. “Here. The wind chime I told you about.” Then, she unzipped the hidden compartment of her suitcase and carefully, almost delicately, pulled out a black velvet box. It screamed expensive. The kind of luxury you did not just buy on a whim. “Do not touch this,” she warned. “It is for Oliver.” I stared at it. “What is it?” “A designer diamond lapel pin. He has a big networking gala next week, it will be perfect for his suit.” She said it with such casual confidence, as if outfitting another man in diamonds right before our wedding was the most normal thing in the world. I reached forward and opened the crumpled paper bag she threw at me. Inside was a cheap, palm-sized wind chime made of synthetic string and shells. The clearance sticker for $19.99 was still plastered on the side. One of the main seashells was visibly chipped. I looked up at her. “This is what you bought me?” Amanda frowned, clearly annoyed by my lack of gratitude. “You are the one who likes all those useless little trinkets, aren’t you?” When had I ever liked cheap trinkets? Last year, we were at a department store and I found a pair of silver cufflinks I really liked. They were three hundred dollars. She had immediately shot the idea down, saying, “Weddings are expensive, Nolan. Stop wasting money on useless things.” I put them back. Oliver’s diamond lapel pin was from a top-tier Italian fashion house. The retail price online was over five grand. “Did he ask you to buy that for him?” I asked quietly. “No. I just saw it in the boutique window and thought it looked like him.” I nodded slowly. “Right. You just saw it.” She was already shrugging off her jacket and completely missed the heavy sarcasm in my voice. Later that evening, her mother called. “Nolan, did you finish the seating chart for the reception yet?” “Not yet.” “Good grief, why are you dragging your feet on everything? Oliver came over last week to help me review the catering menu. He said a traditional sit-down dinner is too boring, so we switched it to a modern seafood buffet. He says the younger crowd will love it.” The hand holding my phone froze in mid-air. “Oliver changed my wedding menu?” “Yes, he has a great eye for these things. You are always so busy with work, so I figured I would just handle it with him and save you the trouble.” “It is my wedding, Mrs. Amanda. Mine and your daughter’s.” The line went dead silent. When she spoke again, her tone was icy. “I am well aware of that. Oliver was just trying to be helpful. There is no need to be so incredibly sensitive.” Amanda walked out of the bathroom, drying her hair with a towel. “Who is on the phone?” “Your mother.” I tapped the speaker button so she could hear. Her mother continued complaining. “Also, that text you wrote for the vow wall was completely outdated. Oliver said it was too boring. He rewrote it for you. I will text you the new version right now.” My phone vibrated against the table. An image popped up on the screen. My original vow had read: We found our forever in the quiet of our ordinary days. Oliver had crossed it out and changed it to: Through the rising and falling tides, I am lucky to be anchored by you. Amanda leaned over and glanced at the screen. “Oliver’s version is actually really good. It has more of a poetic vibe.” I turned my head and looked her dead in the eye. “Did you even read the version I wrote?” “Of course I did.” “And what did you think of it?” She hesitated for a second, waving her hand dismissively. “It was just whatever.” Just whatever. I stayed up for two entire nights agonizing over those words, trying to perfectly capture our six years together. And to her, it was just whatever. Oliver scribbled down some cliché ocean metaphor, and she called it poetic. Her mother’s voice echoed through the speaker again. “Nolan, I am not trying to pick on you, but a man needs to step up when he gets married. You need to have some taste. You are always so rigid and boring. You really should take some notes from Oliver.” I reached out and ended the call. Amanda’s face instantly darkened. “Why the hell did you just hang up on my mother?” “Because I am done listening to her tell me to be more like Oliver.” “She is just blunt. She does not mean any harm.” “And what about you?” I asked quietly. “What about me?” “Amanda, it is our wedding. Why is Oliver’s shadow over absolutely every single part of it?” She groaned, aggressively running a hand through her damp hair. “He is just helping out! You work overtime every single day. What is the big deal if my mom asks him for a second opinion?” “Did you ever bother to ask if I was okay with it?” “Do I seriously need your permission for every little thing?” Little things. The catering menu was a little thing. The vow wall was a little thing. The bridal suite was a little thing. Every single thing that was supposed to belong to me could be casually hijacked by Oliver. As long as Amanda found it convenient. She huffed, walking over to the coffee table and picking up the cheap wind chime. “I am going to hang this on the balcony. Oliver said it makes a really nice sound when the ocean breeze hits it.” I stared at the jagged, broken shell dangling from the string. “There is no ocean breeze here.” She froze. I reached out, took the wind chime from her hand, and dropped it back into the paper bag. “So there is no need to hang it.” On Friday night, Blake organized a dinner with our old friend group. He booked a private room at an upscale seafood grill downtown. I did not want to go. But Amanda stood by the front door, impatiently tapping her foot. “They are our oldest friends, Nolan. Do not be a buzzkill.” I quietly put my coat on and followed her. When we walked into the private room, Oliver was already sitting at the table. He was wearing a tailored navy suit. Pinned perfectly to his lapel was the designer diamond brooch. The moment he saw Amanda, his eyes lit up and he waved. “Amanda, over here.” She gravitated toward him instantly, taking the seat right by his side like it was muscle memory. I stood there for two painfully long seconds before pulling out the chair on her other side. Blake raised his glass and cheered. “Look who it is! The groom has arrived. The big day is right around the corner, right?” Amanda smiled and nodded. “Almost here.” Oliver wiped his mouth with a napkin. A sly, unreadable smile played on his lips. “Well, you never know. Things can always change before the very last day.” The entire table went dead silent. Blake awkwardly cleared his throat to break the tension. “Oliver is just running his mouth. Don’t take it personally, man.” I did not take it personally. I was too busy staring at the diamonds glittering aggressively on his chest under the chandelier lights. A girl sitting across the table leaned forward, her eyes wide. “Oliver, that lapel pin is gorgeous. Who gave it to you?” Oliver let his gaze drift slowly toward Amanda. “An old friend.” Amanda did not even attempt to hide it. “I bought it for him. The diamonds really suit him.” The girl instinctively snapped her head toward me, her face pale. “Oh… well, I am sure Amanda bought you something just as amazing, right Nolan?” Amanda waved her hand dismissively before I could open my mouth. “He does not need things like that.” I let out a low, dry chuckle. “When exactly did I say I did not need things like that?” Amanda froze, staring at me in shock. Oliver immediately jumped in, his voice dripping with fake diplomacy. “Nolan, do not misunderstand. Amanda is just a straight shooter. I am sure whatever she prepared for you is incredibly special.” “Like what?” I asked. He hesitated, clearly caught off guard. I answered for him. “Like a twenty-dollar broken seashell wind chime from a souvenir shop?” No one at the table dared to breathe. The color completely drained from Amanda’s face. “Nolan, do you seriously have to air our dirty laundry in front of everyone?” “Weren’t you the one who just announced to everyone that I did not need nice things?” Oliver let out a soft, condescending sigh. “Nolan, if you keep acting like this, you are going to exhaust her.” Those words were spoken quietly, but they hit me like a physical slap across the face. I would exhaust her. So I was not allowed to ask questions. I was not allowed to make a scene. I was not allowed to feel hurt. I stood up and walked to the restroom to wash my hands. Oliver followed me in. He stood next to me at the marble sinks, casually adjusting his hair in the mirror. “Nolan, there is really no need to treat me like the enemy.” I turned the water off. “I do not have the time or the energy to treat you like anything.” He chuckled softly. “Glad to hear it. Amanda and I have known each other for twenty years. I know how she ticks better than anyone. She is terrible at expressing herself, but she has a soft heart.” “And your point is?” “My point is, stop suffocating her with this wedding. She told me the other day that you are making everything too complicated. It is making her feel trapped.” My chest caved in. “She talks to you about this?” “We talk about everything.” He grabbed a paper towel, dried his hands, and turned to look at me with a look of pure pity. “Look, man, I will be brutally honest with you. The only reason she agreed to marry you is because you are stable. You are responsible. You do not cause problems.” He paused, a sickeningly triumphant smile spreading across his face. “But when she is with me, she actually gets to be herself.” I stared at his smug face and suddenly started laughing. “Oliver, when you say things like that out loud, do you not feel disgusted with yourself?” His smile vanished instantly. “I am just giving you a warning. Do not grip her too tightly. The harder you push a woman, the faster she runs.” “And what about you?” I asked. “I do not have to push.” He reached up and lightly tapped the diamond pin on his chest. “She comes to me all on her own.” When I walked out of the restroom, Amanda was waiting in the hallway. “What took you so long?” “Just catching up with Oliver.” Her eyes instantly darted toward the restroom door, panic flashing in her expression. “He did not say anything stupid, did he?” “What are you terrified he might say?” Amanda scowled. “Nolan, you are being incredibly hostile tonight.” When it was time to leave, Oliver announced he had drank too much to drive. Amanda instantly grabbed her car keys. “I will drop you off.” I looked at her. “He lives on the north side of the city. Our apartment is on the east side. In what world is that on the way?” “It is late. It is not safe for him to take a cab alone.” “What about me?” “You are riding with me, obviously.” And so, Oliver slid effortlessly into the front passenger seat. I was banished to the back. Oliver confidently reached over, connected his phone to her car’s Bluetooth, and put on an indie beach folk song. “Amanda, remember this? We listened to this on repeat on the balcony of that beach house last year.” Amanda laughed, her voice light and musical. “I remember you trying to sing along and completely missing the notes.” For the entire forty-minute drive, they completely ignored me. They talked about the ocean, the beach house, the grilled fish from the night market. I sat in the dark in the backseat, feeling like a stranger who had accidentally hailed the wrong Uber. The car finally pulled up to Oliver’s apartment building. Before he got out, he leaned back and looked at me. “See you at the wedding, Nolan.” Then he turned to Amanda, his voice dropping to a softer, more intimate register. “Do not forget, Amanda. We are taking the boat out for deep-sea fishing next Saturday.” Amanda smiled warmly. “I remember.” The car door slammed shut. “Do you know what day next Saturday is?” I asked the back of her head. Amanda paused, her hands resting on the steering wheel. “Saturday?” “It is the anniversary of my father’s death.” The air inside the car instantly turned to ice. Three years ago, on that exact same day, she had abandoned me. This year, she had forgotten all over again. Amanda tightened her grip on the wheel. Her voice lost its usual confidence. “I can… I can go to the cemetery with you in the afternoon.” “And the morning?” “Oliver already paid the deposit for the charter boat. It is a nightmare to reschedule. I cannot just leave him hanging.” I turned my head and stared out the dark window. “Amanda, do you know what my dad said right before he died? He asked when you were coming over for dinner.” She did not say a word. “You never came. Not even once.” A long time passed before she finally whispered, “There will be other chances in the future.” I let out a broken laugh. The man is dead and buried. What future? It rained heavily on the anniversary of my father’s death. Amanda left the apartment at the crack of dawn. I bought a bottle of his favorite whiskey and took the earliest bus out of the city, riding alone for two hours back to my hometown. The cemetery was built into the side of a foggy hill. I stood in front of the cold granite headstone, holding a black umbrella. In the small porcelain photograph, my dad looked exactly the same. Smiling, with those deep, familiar crinkles around his eyes. I unscrewed the cap and poured the whiskey over the wet grass. “Dad. I do not think I am getting married anymore.” The wind whipped the freezing rain against my face. It was biting cold. I stood there in the storm for a long time. Finally, my phone started vibrating in my pocket. “Where are you?” Amanda asked. “The cemetery.” “Why didn’t you wait for me at the apartment?” “Wait for you to finish fishing with Oliver?” She paused, frustration seeping into her voice. “Nolan, please do not start this right now. The boat was already booked. If I did not show up, he would not have been able to handle the trip by himself.” “But I can handle the anniversary of my father’s death all by myself?” Dead silence on the other end. A few seconds later, she sighed. “I will drive out there right now.” “Do not bother.” “Nolan, stop throwing a tantrum, okay?” I stared blankly at the smiling photo on the gravestone. “Amanda, when my dad was dying in that hospital bed, you were in another state, watching the ocean with Oliver. Today is his three-year anniversary, and you are on a boat with him.” She panicked, her voice rising defensively. “He was having a complete mental breakdown that day! I was terrified he was going to hurt himself!” “And what about me?” “You have always been strong.” I had listened to that exact excuse for six years. You are so strong. You are so independent. You do not need me to hold your hand. Therefore, every single time I was abandoned, I was expected to just swallow the pain and deal with it alone. I hung up the phone. When I took the bus back to the city, I did not go home. I walked straight into the wedding planning agency and canceled every remaining vendor, every floral arrangement, every single detail. The lead planner looked at me, her eyes filled with pity and confusion. “Nolan… have you discussed this with Amanda?” “I will inform her myself.” “But the visual designs are completely finished.” She turned her laptop around to show me. On the screen was a beautiful digital mockup. My name and Amanda’s name, suspended over a gorgeous watercolor backdrop of the ocean. And right beneath it, the quote Oliver had rewritten. Through the rising and falling tides, I am lucky to be anchored by you. I stared at those words. It felt like a sick, twisted joke. Anchored by who? Oliver? I pulled out my phone and sent Amanda a single text message. “The wedding is canceled.” She called me back within seconds. I let it ring. She called five more times in a row. I powered my phone off. By the time I finally walked into our apartment, the sun had already set. I pulled my suitcases from the closet and started packing. I did not have many clothes, mostly just stacks of books. When I first moved in, Amanda had frowned at them. “Your books take up way too much space. Once we are married, stop buying so much useless junk.” Back then, I had just smiled and said, “Okay.” Yet Oliver’s surfboard, his heavy-duty camping chairs, and his endless boxes of photography equipment were allowed to consume our entire storage room. I opened the storage closet door. Inside were his hiking boots. His expensive tactical backpack. His backup toiletry bag. There was even a leather luggage tag with his name engraved in gold foil hanging on the hook. I had lived in this apartment for four years, but it felt like I was just the caretaker of Oliver’s personal storage unit. I packed everything I owned into two suitcases. Then, I slowly slid the engagement ring off my left hand. It was a cheap, basic band Amanda had bought using her credit card reward points during a mall promotion. She had tossed the box at me and said: “We are going to buy real wedding bands anyway, so this is just to make it official for now.” Back then, I was terrified she felt bad about it, so I promised I would buy her a massive diamond later to make up for it. Looking back on it now. When it came to me, everything she did was just the bare minimum. Just checking a box. I placed the ring directly in the center of the coffee table. Right next to it, I placed the broken shell wind chime. And a handwritten note. Amanda, I canceled the wedding. I am returning the ring. I am returning the wind chime. Since you already have someone to watch the ocean with, I won’t be joining you anymore. I set the pen down, grabbed the handles of my suitcases, and walked out the door. The exact second the door clicked shut behind me, I powered my phone back on. A tidal wave of notifications flooded my screen. Missed calls and texts from Amanda, Carter, the wedding planners, her mother. The very last text was from Amanda. “Nolan, where the hell are you? You are scaring me.” I glanced at it, locked my screen, and ignored it. The Uber I ordered pulled up to the curb. The driver rolled down the window. “Where to, man?” I threw my bags in the trunk and got in. “The airport.”

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