1 On the day we got married, Sloane and I each folded fifty origami wishing stars and tucked them into the same glass jar. We made a pact: we wouldn’t open it until our fifth anniversary. Today was that day. She called earlier to say there was an emergency meeting at the firm and that we’d celebrate late. I couldn’t wait. My chest was tight with a restless, hopeful energy as I twisted off the lid and began unfurling my own notes. “I hope we spend every anniversary together.” “I hope I’m always the first person she thinks of.” “I hope we grow old in each other’s arms.” I smiled, my heart aching with a sweetness that felt almost physical, and reached for hers. The first star: “Remember to buy him an almond latte every Wednesday afternoon.” The second: “Remember his stomach is sensitive; don’t let him eat anything spicy.” The third: “Remember he’s terrified of thunder; never leave him alone during a storm.” A cold numbness washed over me. I’m deathly allergic to almonds. I’ve never touched an almond latte in my life. I love spicy food—it’s my one vice—and in five years of marriage, Sloane has never once asked if my stomach hurt. And the storms? For five years, every time the sky turned black and the thunder rolled, Sloane would claim a crisis at the office and leave me alone in our empty house. I kept unfolding. I went through all fifty. Not once did my name, Gabriel, appear. Almond lattes. Chronic gastritis. A debilitating fear of storms. Every single detail pointed to my best friend—her “little brother” figure—Miles Fletcher. The sound of a key turning in the lock echoed through the foyer. Sloane walked in, a designer cake box dangling from her hand. “Happy five years, Gabe…” She stopped dead when she saw the sea of paper strips scattered across the dining table. I looked up, my vision blurring at the edges. “Your wishes,” I said, my voice sounding like it belonged to a stranger. “I’ve decided to help you grant them.” I pushed a handful of the notes toward her. “Go to him, Sloane.” The practiced smile on Sloane’s face withered. She set the cake down and reached for the slips of paper, her movements frantic. “Gabriel, don’t. Give those to me.” I pinned one last, unfolded star under my thumb. “Why? Because I wasn’t supposed to see them? Or because I’ve finally learned how to read between the lines?” Her hand hovered in the air for a second before she snatched the paper away. “I wrote these before we were married. That was five years ago, Gabe. It’s ancient history.” “If it’s history, why are you still doing every single thing on this list?” Sloane began gathering the notes, her composure returning like a suit of armor. “You remember the summer in grad school? The hiking trip? The landslide? Nadia threw herself in front of me and broke half her ribs. You were in the hospital, Gabe. You saw her.” I remembered. I, Sloane, Miles, and his older sister Nadia had been inseparable. Nadia was a hero, currently working a high-stakes job overseas. Before she left, she had practically knighted Sloane as Miles’s protector. “Miles has had panic attacks during storms ever since,” Sloane continued, her voice gaining that clinical, corporate edge. “His stomach issues started during that hospital stay. He has physical therapy on Wednesdays, and I’m in the neighborhood, so I grab him a coffee. It’s a gesture of gratitude to his sister. That’s all.” “So for five years, every time it rained and you left me, it was just… an errand of mercy?” “Yes,” she said, without a flicker of hesitation. “You’ve known Miles as long as I have. You know what he’s been through. Nadia saved my life. She’s not here, so I look after him. Is that really a problem?” She paused, a sharp note of irritation creeping in. “Gabriel, you’re his friend too. Why are you making this so ugly?” I watched her gather all fifty stars into her palm. I felt a laugh bubble up in my throat—sharp and jagged. “Then why did you put notes for him in our wishing jar?” Sloane’s brow furrowed. “I just grabbed the first scraps of paper I found on my desk back then.” “The night before our wedding, you sat right here. You told me every star represented a piece of our future together.” “It was a romantic sentiment, Gabe. Are you really going to hold me to a throwaway comment from half a decade ago?” She must have realized how cold she sounded because she reached out to touch my shoulder. “Gabriel, I didn’t mean it like that.” I pulled away. Her hand fell into the empty air. On the corner of the table lay my latest lab results. I had planned to wait until she opened the last star to tell her. I had planned to tell her that if I had surgery now, I could still save my stomach. Now, the words felt like ash in my mouth. Sloane picked up the silver cake knife. “Let’s just eat. I had my assistant order your favorite.” She opened the box, and the heavy, cloying scent of marzipan hit me like a physical blow. Almonds. I gripped the edge of the table. “This is what you think my favorite flavor is?” Sloane glanced at the label, her face paling slightly. “My assistant must have messed up the order. Miles was at the office today; she probably got our boxes mixed up.” She closed the lid, her patience clearly evaporated. “It’s just a cake, Gabe. I’ll call and have another one sent over.” “Don’t bother.” I slid my medical report under the tablecloth, hiding it from view. “Sloane, I want a divorce.” Her hand froze. She dropped the knife back into the box with a dull thud. “Over a few five-year-old notes?” “Because in every moment of the last five years where I thought you were mine, you were actually his.” “Don’t be dramatic.” Sloane rubbed her temples. “I’m the one who married you. I’m the one who carries your name. Miles has never tried to take your place.” “So I should be grateful for the leftovers?” “I’m saying you shouldn’t use our anniversary to test me with threats of divorce.” Her phone erupted into a frantic ringtone. Sloane saw the name and answered instantly. Miles’s voice, thin and panicked, bled through the receiver. “Sloane… the storm’s starting. The power just went out at my place. I can’t—I can’t breathe.” “Stay on the line, Miles. I’m coming.” Sloane grabbed her coat, giving me a fleeting, dismissive look. “He’s having a panic attack. I have to go.” “And if I ask you not to?” She paused mid-button, her eyes turning cold. “Gabriel, don’t make me lose respect for you. This is immature.” She pulled the door open. As the first rumble of thunder shook the windows, Sloane was already in the elevator. She never even noticed the corner of the lab report sticking out from under the cloth. It was clearly marked: Severe Gastric Ulceration with Imminent Hemorrhage Risk. Immediate Admission Required. I picked up my phone and dialed my lawyer. As the line rang, I heard the frantic rhythm of footsteps in the hall. Sloane burst back in. “Where’s the spare key to Miles’s apartment?” I opened the junk drawer, pulled out the key, and dropped it into her palm. “Keep it,” I said. “He clearly needs you more than I do. It’ll be more convenient this way.” “I told you, Gabe, he’s just afraid of the thunder.” “I know.” My calmness seemed to unsettle her more than my anger. She grabbed my wrist, her thumb pressing into a small red scratch I’d gotten from the glass jar earlier. “Gabriel, if you have something to say, say it. Stop with the passive-aggressive act.” “When I said ‘divorce,’ was that not direct enough for you?” Her grip tightened. From the phone on the coffee table, my lawyer’s voice spoke up. “Gabriel? Are you there?” Sloane looked at the screen and ended the call herself. “Go to bed. You’re acting out. We have the presentation for the Sycamore Theater restoration tomorrow morning. Don’t be late.” “That’s my project, Sloane.” “Then don’t let your personal tantrums ruin it.” She dropped the key into her pocket. “Don’t eat the cake. I know about the allergy. I’ll bring you something else when I get back.” The door clicked shut again. She didn’t come back that night. The next morning, the presentation was already underway by the time I walked into the boardroom. The projector was displaying the restoration blueprints I had spent two years perfecting—but it was Miles Fletcher standing at the head of the table. He faltered for a second when he saw me. Sloane, sitting at the head of the board, didn’t even look up. “Keep going, Miles.” Miles offered a small, sheepish smile. “The core of the Sycamore project isn’t just a rebuild; it’s about honoring the original skeleton. That’s been my philosophy since I returned from my residency in London.” The room broke into applause. I stood by the door, my voice echoing in the sudden silence. “Your philosophy?” Miles hurried over to me. “Gabe, hey. Don’t be mad. Sloane told me you weren’t feeling well, so she asked me to step in and handle the briefing.” “And why is your name on the title block of my drawings?” He went pale, glancing back at Sloane. She capped her fountain pen with a sharp click. “The investors prefer someone with an international pedigree. Having Miles’s name on the lead ensures the project gets greenlit. It’s a strategic move.” “The drawings are mine.” “The project belongs to the firm, Gabriel.” “The data belongs to my father’s estate. It’s not company property.” Sloane checked her watch. “You’re my husband. If Miles wins the project, it’s a win for our family. What’s the difference?” Miles leaned in, his voice a low, soothing murmur. “Gabe, it’s just a temporary credit. Once the project is live, I’ll tell everyone the truth.” “When? After you collect the award? Or after you collect the bonus?” His eyes welled with tears instantly. Sloane slammed her pen onto the table. “That’s enough!” “Miles spent all night coordinating with the London consultants. He’s not just ‘taking’ your work; he’s elevating it.” “So I should thank him?” “At the very least, you shouldn’t embarrass him in front of our partners.” The room went silent. I suddenly remembered three years ago, when I first proposed the Sycamore project. Sloane had buried it, telling me the risk was too high. Now, three months after Miles joined the firm, it was suddenly a masterpiece. It wasn’t that the project wasn’t worth the risk. It was that I wasn’t worth the risk. A wave of nausea rolled through me. I bolted for the restroom, barely making it to the sink. Sloane followed me in a moment later, holding a glass of lukewarm water. “Did you skip breakfast again?” I didn’t take the glass. She reached into her blazer pocket and pulled out a dried plum—the kind people eat for motion sickness. She unwrapped it and held it out. “Eat this. It’ll settle your stomach.” For a fleeting, pathetic second, my heart softened. Maybe she did care. Then Miles appeared in the doorway, a soft chuckle escaping him. “Sloane, you still have those? I remember back in college, you always kept them in your pocket because I got car-sick. Does Gabe get nauseous too?” The tiny spark of warmth in my chest died. I took the plum and dropped it into the trash can. Sloane’s face hardened. “If you don’t want it, fine. But don’t be wasteful.” “You’re right,” I said, grabbing a paper towel to wipe my mouth. “From now on, if it doesn’t belong to me, I’m not touching it.” I walked back into the boardroom, went straight to the console, and ripped the HDMI cable out. “This presentation is over,” I announced to the stunned board members. “The underlying data is copyrighted to my father’s studio. Without my signed authorization, any use of these designs is a federal intellectual property violation.” Miles looked like he’d been slapped. “But Sloane said I could lead this…” I looked him in the eye. “Then let her draw you a new building.” Sloane stood up, her voice dropping an octave. “Gabriel. Restore that authorization by this afternoon.” “No.” “Your father’s old studio is in the redevelopment zone for the new mall,” she said, her voice terrifyingly flat. “For every day this project stalls, the demolition crew moves up their schedule by a week. If you want to save your father’s old archives, you’ll stop being impulsive.” She slid a document across the table. It was a demolition notice. At the bottom, in bold, black ink, was Sloane’s signature.
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