I lit the last candle at six-thirty. The flame caught and steadied. I stepped back and looked at the table. Roasted chicken with herbs. Garlic mashed potatoes. Green beans with almonds. A small chocolate cake on the counter. Everything Rylan used to say he loved.

I checked my phone. No messages. I texted him an hour ago. *Dinner's ready when you are.* He read it. No reply.

I sat down and waited. The candles burned. The chicken got cold. I didn't move.

At eight-fifteen, the front door opened. Rylan walked in, still in his work shirt, tie loosened. He glanced at the table. His eyes passed over the food, the candles, me. He didn't stop walking.

"Sorry, babe," he said, heading toward the bedroom. "Long day."

I stood up. "I made dinner."

"Yeah, I see that." He pulled his tie off and tossed it on the couch. "Looks nice."

"It's been ready for two hours."

He paused in the doorway, finally looking at me. Not really at me. More like through me. "I said I'm sorry. I got held up."

I waited. He didn't explain. He never explained anymore.

"Are you hungry?" I asked quietly.

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Actually, I need to run back out. Mavis had a rough day. I told her I'd drop off some food."

Something cold settled in my chest. "Mavis."

"Yeah. She texted me earlier. She's been sick all day, and she doesn't have anyone to help her out." He said it like it was obvious. Like it was reasonable. "I'll just grab something from the kitchen and—"

"I spent three hours making this dinner."

He stopped. Looked at me again. This time I saw a flash of irritation. "Kennedy, come on. Don't make this a thing. She's sick. I'm being a good neighbor."

"You're being a good neighbor," I repeated slowly.

"Yeah." He turned away, walking toward the kitchen. "I won't be long."

I watched him pull out plastic containers. He started packing up the chicken, the potatoes. He moved quickly, efficiently. Like he'd done this before.

"Rylan."

"What?" He didn't look up.

I wanted to say so many things. I wanted to ask when Mavis became more important than me. I wanted to ask when he stopped seeing me entirely. I wanted to scream.

But I didn't. I just stood there, twisting my wedding ring around my finger.

"Nothing," I whispered.

He snapped the lids on the containers and grabbed his keys. "I'll be back in twenty."

The door closed behind him. I heard his car start. I heard him drive away.

I walked back to the table. The candles were still burning. I blew them out one by one. The smoke curled up and disappeared.

I didn't eat. I put everything away. I washed the dishes. I went to bed alone.

---

The next morning, Rylan came back with breakfast. He walked in smiling, holding a paper bag. "Peace offering," he said, setting it on the counter.

I looked at the bag. I didn't move.

"Come on, don't be mad." He pulled out a wrapped burrito. "I got your favorite."

I unwrapped it slowly. Steak. Peppers. Cheese.

My throat tightened. "Rylan, I'm allergic to beef."

He blinked. "What?"

"I'm allergic to beef. I've been allergic to beef since I was twelve. You know this."

He stared at the burrito. Then at me. "Oh. Shit. I forgot."

I set it down. My hands were shaking. "You forgot."

"It was early. I wasn't thinking." He rubbed his face. "I'll go back and get you something else."

"Don't."

"Kennedy—"

"Just don't."

He sighed, annoyed now. "Fine. Whatever."

He left the bag on the counter and walked away. I stood there, staring at the burrito. Then I saw the receipt sticking out of the bag. I pulled it out.

The timestamp said seven-forty-five a.m. The line items were listed clearly. One steak burrito. One avocado toast with poached eggs and microgreens. Sixteen dollars. Forty-three-minute wait time printed at the bottom.

Avocado toast. Mavis's favorite. She mentioned it once at a neighborhood barbecue. Rylan laughed and said he'd never tried it. She said he should. He said maybe he would.

He stood in line for forty-three minutes. Not for me. For her.

I folded the receipt carefully. I put it in my pocket. I walked to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed.

Something inside me went very quiet. Very still.

The last flicker of hope I'd been holding onto died.

---

That evening, I found Rylan in the living room, scrolling through his phone. He was smiling at the screen. I didn't need to ask who he was texting.

I stood in the doorway. "We need to talk."

"Mm-hmm." He didn't look up.

"Rylan."

"Yeah, I'm listening."

"I want a divorce."

That got his attention. He looked up, eyebrows raised. Then he laughed. Actually laughed. "What?"

"I want a divorce," I said again, quieter this time.

He set his phone down, still smiling like I'd told a joke. "Kennedy, come on. Don't be dramatic."

"I'm not being dramatic."

"Yes, you are." He stood up, walking past me toward the hallway mirror. He smoothed his hair, checked his reflection. "You're upset about breakfast. I get it. I screwed up. But asking for a divorce? That's insane."

"You forgot I'm allergic to beef. You've known me for eight years."

"People forget things." He adjusted his collar, still looking at himself. Not at me. "It's not a big deal."

"You stood in line for forty-three minutes to get Mavis avocado toast."

He froze. Just for a second. Then he turned around, and his face was different. Colder. "Are you seriously jealous of me being nice to a neighbor?"

"You bring her groceries. You fix things in her apartment. You spend more time at her door than you do with me."

"Because she needs help!" His voice rose. "She's alone. She doesn't have anyone. I'm being a decent human being."

"And I don't need help?"

"You?" He laughed again, sharper this time. "You're fine. You're here, in this house, with everything taken care of. You don't work. You don't pay bills. You're just a housewife."

The words hit like a slap.

"You wouldn't last a week without my paycheck," he continued, stepping closer. "You think you can just leave? And go where? Do what? You have nothing, Kennedy. You are nothing without me."

I looked at him. Really looked at him. This man I gave up everything for. This man I loved so much I erased myself to be with him.

He didn't see me at all.

"Sign the papers," I whispered.

He snorted. "There are no papers."

"There will be."

He grabbed his keys off the hall table. "I don't have time for this. I'm going out."

"To Mavis."

He didn't deny it. He just walked out. Slammed the door.

I stood there in the empty hallway. Then I walked to the bedroom. I opened the closet. I knelt down and pulled up the loose floorboard in the back corner. My journal was underneath, wrapped in an old scarf.

I opened it. I wrote:

*I chose this life because I wanted to be loved for myself. But I think the person I was trying to be loved as has disappeared entirely.*

I closed the journal. I put it back. I sat on the floor.

I didn't cry loudly. Tears fell silently down my face while I sat perfectly still.

And I made a decision.

The doorbell rang at two-thirty in the afternoon.

I was folding laundry in the bedroom. I stopped, listening. The doorbell rang again. Twice. Insistent.

I walked to the front door and opened it.

Mavis stood on the porch, holding a plate covered in foil. She wore a soft pink cardigan and white jeans. Her hair fell in loose waves. She smiled like we were old friends.

"Hi, Kennedy!" Her voice was bright, breathy. "I hope I'm not bothering you."

I looked at the plate. Then at her. I didn't say anything.

She tilted her head, widening her eyes. "I made way too much pasta today. I just thought—well, I know how busy you must be, taking care of everything here all by yourself." She held out the plate. "I wanted to share."

I didn't take it.

She stood there, smiling. Waiting. The performance was flawless. The helpful neighbor. The kind gesture. The sweet girl who just wanted to be friends.

I saw right through it.

"No thank you," I said quietly.

Her smile flickered. Just for a second. "Oh. Are you sure? It's homemade. I used my grandmother's recipe."

"I'm sure."

She blinked, her expression shifting to something softer. Hurt. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No."

"Then why—"

"I said no thank you." I stepped back. "Have a good day, Mavis."

I closed the door. I heard her stand there for a moment. Then footsteps down the porch stairs.

I walked back to the bedroom. My hands were steady. My chest was tight.

Ten minutes later, the front door slammed open.

Rylan stormed in, his face flushed. He didn't even take off his shoes. He came straight to the bedroom doorway.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he snapped.

I looked up from the laundry. "Excuse me?"

"Mavis just texted me." He held up his phone like evidence. "She said she tried to bring you food and you slammed the door in her face."

"I didn't slam anything. I said no thank you."

"She was being nice!" His voice rose. "She made you food, Kennedy. She was trying to be a good neighbor, and you treated her like garbage."

I folded a towel slowly. "I don't want her food."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't."

He stepped into the room. "This is exactly what I'm talking about. You're paranoid. You're jealous. She's done nothing but try to be kind to us, and you act like she's—"

"Like she's what?" I set the towel down. "Say it."

He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding my eyes. "Like she's some kind of threat. Which is insane. She's just a neighbor."

"Then why do you care so much?"

"Because you're embarrassing me!" He threw his hands up. "She probably thinks you're crazy. Hell, I'm starting to think you're crazy."

I looked at him. My husband. The man I gave up everything for.

"Get out," I whispered.

"What?"

"Get out of this room. Now."

He stared at me. Then he laughed, sharp and bitter. "Unbelievable."

He turned and walked out. I heard him grab his keys. The door slammed again.

I walked to the window. I looked across the yard.

Mavis stood at her window. Watching. When she saw me, she didn't look away. She just smiled. Faint. Satisfied.

Then she let the curtain fall.

---

The weeks that followed felt like slow suffocation.

Mavis was everywhere. At Helena Wagner's Saturday morning coffee gatherings. At the Sunday farmer's market, carrying a canvas tote and laughing with the other neighbors. At the community barbecue, wearing a sundress and helping set up tables.

And Rylan was always near her. Always.

I watched him carry her groceries from her car. I watched him assemble a bookshelf on her porch. I watched him fix her leaking faucet while she stood in the doorway, handing him tools and thanking him softly.

He lingered. He laughed too loud at her jokes. He touched her arm when he talked.

The neighbors noticed. But not the way I needed them to.

I was at the farmer's market one Sunday, picking through tomatoes, when I heard Helena's voice behind me.

"Isn't Rylan just the sweetest man?" she said to another neighbor, loud enough for me to hear. "That Kennedy is so lucky. I don't think she appreciates him enough."

I didn't turn around. I put the tomatoes in my basket. I walked away.

That night, Rylan came home late. Again. He smelled like her perfume. Light. Floral. Nothing like what I wore.

He didn't say where he'd been. I didn't ask.

I twisted my wedding ring around my finger. It felt loose now. Like it didn't fit anymore.

I went to bed. Alone.

And I stopped hoping he would notice.

The laundry room was in the basement of the community center. Concrete floors. Fluorescent lights. The smell of detergent and damp fabric.

I was folding towels when the door opened behind me.

I didn't need to turn around. I knew her footsteps by now. Light. Deliberate.

"Oh, Kennedy!" Mavis's voice was bright, surprised. Like she hadn't followed me down here on purpose. "I didn't know anyone else was here."

I kept folding. "Hi, Mavis."

She walked to the machine next to mine. Set down her basket. Started loading clothes. White lace bras. Silk blouses. Everything delicate and expensive.

"How are you?" she asked softly.

I didn't answer. I pulled a towel from the dryer. Folded it in half. Then half again.

She hummed to herself. A light, cheerful sound. Then she spoke again, quieter this time. "Rylan's been so helpful lately. I don't know what I'd do without him."

My hands stilled. Just for a second.

She noticed. Of course she noticed.

"He fixed my sink yesterday," she continued. "Stayed for almost two hours. We had coffee after. He's such a good listener."

I set the towel in my basket. Reached for another one.

"He talks about you, you know."

I looked up.

Mavis was watching me. Her head tilted. Her eyes wide and innocent. But her mouth—her mouth wasn't smiling anymore.

"Says you used to be fun." Her voice dropped. Flat. Cold. Nothing breathy about it now. "I guess that was a long time ago."

I stood very still. My heart pounded. My hands gripped the towel.

She stepped closer. Close enough that I could smell her perfume. Light. Floral. The same scent that clung to Rylan's shirts.

"Don't worry, sweetie," she whispered. Her lips curved into something that wasn't a smile. It was sharper. Crueler. "I'll take good care of him."

I couldn't breathe. The basement felt smaller. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. I wanted to tell her exactly who I was and what I could do to her.

But I didn't.

Because if I reacted—if I showed her she'd gotten to me—she would run straight to Rylan. She would cry. She would say I threatened her. And he would believe her.

He always believed her.

So I folded the towel. Slowly. Carefully. My hands shook, but I didn't stop.

Mavis watched me for a long moment. Then she laughed softly. Picked up her basket. Walked to the door.

She paused in the doorway. Looked back.

"See you around, Kennedy."

The door closed.

I stood there. Alone. Holding a towel I'd folded three times without noticing.

Then I sat down on the concrete floor. I pressed my palms against my eyes.

I didn't cry. I just sat there. Breathing. Waiting for my hands to stop shaking.

---

That night, I couldn't sleep.

Rylan was next to me, snoring softly. His arm was thrown across the pillow. His face was peaceful.

I stared at the ceiling. Mavis's voice echoed in my head. *I'll take good care of him.*

I got up. Walked to the living room. Opened my laptop.

I typed: *Divorce lawyer Seattle.*

The search results loaded. I clicked the first link. Then the second. Then the third.

I read about contested divorces. Asset division. Alimony. Custody—though we didn't have children, thank God.

I read about what I would need. Proof of income. Bank statements. Employment history.

I had none of those things.

No job. No paycheck. No assets in my name. Everything was Rylan's. The house. The car. The bank accounts.

On paper, I was nobody.

I closed the laptop. Pressed my hands against my face.

If I revealed who I really was—if I told anyone I was Kennedy Price, heiress to the Price empire—it would destroy the entire life I'd built here. The fiction would collapse. Rylan would know I'd been lying to him for eight years.

And he would use it against me. I knew he would.

I opened the laptop again. Started taking notes. Quietly. Carefully. Names of lawyers. Phone numbers. Questions to ask.

I saved the document. Titled it *Budget Planning*. Something boring. Something Rylan would never open.

Then I walked to the bedroom. Knelt by the closet. Pulled up the loose floorboard.

My journal was there. Wrapped in the old scarf. I unwrapped it. Tucked the printed notes inside. Wrapped it again.

I put it back. Replaced the floorboard.

Rylan stirred in bed. "Kennedy?"

I froze.

"Yeah?"

"Come back to bed."

I stood up. Walked back to the bed. Slid under the covers.

He rolled over. His arm draped across my waist.

"Love you," he mumbled, already half-asleep.

I stared at the ceiling.

I didn't say it back.