The single flame flickered on the strawberry cake, casting long shadows across the kitchen island. I stared at the melting wax, swiped the screen on my phone, and tapped Anson’s contact name.

The line rang three times.

"What?" Anson whispered sharply.

"Anson," I started, keeping my tone even. "Are you almost done? I made—"

"Don't call unless it's an emergency." His voice cut through the quiet room, harsh and hurried. "Are you trying to wake her up?"

I tightened my grip on the edge of the marble counter. "Wake who up?"

"Bella. You know she has severe insomnia. A ringing phone ruins her entire night."

"It's eight o'clock in the evening."

"That doesn't matter. Her nerves are shot. If you have something to say, wait until I get home."

"I just wanted to know if you were coming back for dinner. It’s a special—"

"I told you I'd be late," he interrupted. "She needs me right now. Stop being so selfish."

"Selfish?" The word tasted bitter on my tongue. "I'm asking my husband to come home."

"And I'm telling you I'm busy taking care of someone who actually needs help. Don't text me either. The vibration scares her."

*Click.*

He hung up.

I lowered the phone. Five years of marriage. If I bothered to keep a tally, tonight marked exactly the hundredth time Anson had dropped everything for his childhood best friend. Whenever Bella called, Anson ran. A broken nail, a bad dream, a flat tire—she always came first.

I reached out and plucked the candle from the frosting. I didn't bother making a wish. I grabbed a fork, carved out a large piece of the sponge cake, and forced a bite down my throat. It tasted like nothing.

My phone buzzed against the counter. A notification flashed across the locked screen.

Instagram. Bella had just posted a new story.

I tapped the glowing circle.

A video started playing. The camera panned across a massive flat-screen TV showing a popular slapstick comedy. Then, the lens flipped around to show the couch. Bella leaned heavily against Anson's shoulder. He held a massive bowl of popcorn, throwing his head back in laughter at whatever was happening on the screen.

The caption appeared in bright pink letters: *Movie night with my favorite guy. Finally curing the insomnia!*

I paused the video. My thumb hovered directly over Anson's smiling face.

"Brainless plots make people stupid," he had told me just last month when I suggested watching a comedy on a Friday night. "I don't waste my time on that garbage. Put on a documentary."

Apparently, he made exceptions.

A dry laugh escaped my lips. I really was the stupid one. I sat alone in the dim kitchen, scraping the last bit of icing from the porcelain plate, watching the digital clock on the oven tick forward.

11:58.

11:59.

12:00.

My birthday was over.

The front door clicked open at exactly three in the morning.

Heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway. Anson stepped into the living room, loosening his silk tie. He stopped dead in his tracks when he noticed me sitting on the sofa in the dark.

"Why are you awake?" he asked, his brow furrowing in irritation.

"I couldn't sleep."

He sniffed his own sleeve—a quick, nervous gesture. "I'm taking a shower."

He didn't wait for my response. He walked briskly down the hall, avoiding my gaze. A minute later, the water turned on.

I remained on the couch, staring at the blank television screen. In the past, I would have followed him. I would have yelled. I would have demanded to know why he smelled like vanilla perfume, why he lied about her sleeping, why he chose her over me on today of all days.

Tonight, my chest felt entirely hollow.

The bathroom door opened. Anson walked out, rubbing a towel vigorously through his damp hair. He picked up his phone from the coffee table, tapping the screen to check his messages.

He froze.

His eyes darted from the illuminated date on the screen to my face. The color drained completely from his cheeks.

"Ivy," he began, his voice dropping a full octave.

"Yes?"

"It was your birthday."

"It was."

He tossed the towel onto a nearby armchair and took a hesitant step toward me. "Why didn't you tell me on the phone? I wouldn't have stayed at Bella's if I knew."

"I tried to tell you."

"You should have pushed harder. You know how chaotic things get when her anxiety flares up. I lose track of time."

"Right."

He knelt in front of the sofa, reaching out to grab my hands. I pulled them back smoothly, folding my arms across my chest.

"I'm sorry," Anson said, running a hand over his face. "I completely forgot. Let me make it up to you tomorrow. We can go to that French place downtown. The one you like."

I looked down at him. The man I had loved for half a decade. He looked exhausted, guilty, and entirely full of excuses.

"Don't worry about it," I said flatly.

"I am worrying about it. You're mad."

"I'm not mad, Anson."

"Then why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you don't care."

"Because I don't."

He scoffed, standing up and towering over me. "Don't do this, Ivy. Don't play the martyr. I made a mistake, okay? I'm apologizing."

"I accepted your apology."

"No, you didn't. You're giving me the cold shoulder."

"I'm going to bed."

"We aren't done talking about this," he insisted, stepping into my path.

"There is nothing left to talk about." I met his gaze directly. "You spent my birthday watching a comedy with Bella. I ate cake alone. The day is over."

Anson blinked, caught off guard. "How did you know we watched a movie?"

"She posted it."

"You're blowing this out of proportion," Anson snapped, crossing his arms. "It was a mistake. I forgot a date on the calendar. Husbands forget birthdays all the time."

"Do husbands also rush to their childhood friends every time they have a bad day?"

"She was having a crisis!"

"She was eating popcorn and laughing at a screen!" I raised my voice, finally letting a fraction of my exhaustion bleed through. "I saw the video, Anson. She wasn't having a crisis. She was having a date."

"Don't call it that."

"What else should I call it?"

"She's sick, Ivy. You know she struggles with her mental health."

"And I struggle with my marriage."

Anson flinched. He stared at me as if I had slapped him. "That's unfair."

"Is it?" I asked, my voice dropping back to a quiet, steady rhythm. "Five years. I have spent five years watching you run out the door the second she snaps her fingers. I used to cry about it. I used to beg you to stay."

"I'm here now."

"Only because she went to sleep."

"That's not true."

"Yes, it is." I turned away from him. "I used to care. I really did. But tonight, watching that clock hit midnight, I realized something."

"What?" he asked, his voice tight.

"I'm just tired."

I walked toward the guest bedroom.

"Ivy!" he called out, panic finally breaking through his defensive anger. "Where are you going? Our room is this way."

"I'm sleeping in the guest room."

"You can't just walk away from this conversation."

"I just did."

I pushed through the revolving glass doors of Gallagher Corp, running on two hours of sleep and a lukewarm coffee. My chest ached with a dull, persistent throb. I wanted to bury last night. I wanted to pretend the midnight confrontation in our living room never happened.

Five years of marriage deserved one more try.

I bypassed my own cubicle and walked straight toward the CEO's office. I didn't knock. I just turned the brass handle and pushed the heavy oak door inward.

"Anson, we need to—"

The words died in my throat.

White printer paper littered the Persian rug. The leather sofa in the corner was empty, but the massive mahogany desk was not. Bella sat perched on the edge of the wood, her bare legs wrapped around Anson’s waist. Her silk blouse hung open, exposing the lace trim of her bra. Anson stood between her knees, his hands resting firmly on her bare thighs.

Time stopped.

Bella gasped, yanking her collar together. She buried her face into Anson’s chest, trembling like a frightened bird.

Anson didn't jump back. He didn't push her away. Instead, he shifted his weight, instinctively shielding her body from my view.

He glared at me. "Do you not know how to knock?"

I stared at his hands. They were still resting on her skin.

"My mistake," I said, my voice eerily hollow. "I thought I was walking into my husband's office, not a brothel."

Anson’s jaw tightened. "Watch your mouth, Ivy. It's not what it looks like."

"Really?" I tilted my head. "Because it looks like you're undressing her."

"She was having a severe panic attack," Anson snapped, stepping back just enough to pull Bella’s jacket over her shoulders. "She couldn't breathe. Her clothes were restricting her."

"So you unbuttoned her shirt."

"I helped her calm down."

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. I didn't scream. I didn't throw the ceramic mug sitting on the edge of the desk. I just stood there, realizing how pathetic I had been. I was the intruder here. I was the third wheel in my own marriage.

Anson finally noticed my pale face. The anger in his eyes flickered, replaced by a sudden flash of guilt. He took a half-step toward me, his hand reaching out.

"Ivy, listen to me," he started, lowering his tone. "She showed up here in tears. She was hyperventilating. I was just trying to comfort her. You know her nerves are shot."

"I know," I answered flatly. "Her nerves are always shot."

"Don't be cruel."

"I'm being observant."

Bella peeked out from behind his shoulder. Her eyes were red-rimmed, swimming with fresh tears. She let out a soft, pathetic sob.

"Anson, I'm so sorry," she whispered, grabbing his sleeve. "It's all my fault. I shouldn't have come. I'm ruining your marriage."

Anson’s hand dropped before it ever reached me. He spun around, pulling Bella into a tight embrace.

"Stop saying that," he murmured, stroking her hair. "You didn't do anything wrong. You needed help."

He didn't even look at me.

I watched his thumb trace circles on her back. A memory forced its way into my mind, sharp and uninvited.

"You stood in the pouring rain for four hours," I said.

Anson paused, glancing over his shoulder. "What?"

"Sophomore year. Outside my dorm." I kept my posture rigid. "You swore you only wanted me. You promised I would always be your priority."

"Ivy, don't do this right now."

"When we got married, things were perfect." I took a step closer, my eyes locked on his face. "Then she came back from Paris three years ago."

"She went through a terrible breakup," Anson argued, his voice rising. "She was depressed."

"And she never got better."

"She's trying!"

"Is she?" I pointed at the woman cowering against him. "Because from where I stand, she just uses her anxiety as a leash. And you bark every time she pulls it."

"Shut up!" Anson yelled.

The office fell completely silent. The echo of his shout bounced off the glass windows.

"Last month, I spent three days in the hospital with a hundred-and-four-degree fever," I reminded him, my tone dropping to a deadly calm. "You left after an hour."

Anson swallowed hard. "Bella was terrified of the thunderstorm. The power went out at her place."

"I was on an IV drip, Anson."

"You had doctors around you! You were safe!" He ran a hand through his messy hair, clearly frustrated. "When are you going to grow up, Ivy? When are you going to stop being so jealous?"

"Jealous." The word felt foreign on my tongue.

"Yes. You act like a child. Bella only has me. You have a whole life, a career, friends. She needs my support."

"What about our anniversary?" I pressed, refusing to let him off the hook. "You left the restaurant before the appetizers arrived because she found a spider in her bathtub."

"She has severe arachnophobia!"

"She has a rolled-up magazine!" I shot back. "She didn't need you to drive across town to kill a bug. She just needed to know you would drop me the second she called."

"That is insane," Anson scoffed. "We've known each other since we were kids. Her parents asked me to look out for her before they passed."

"And my parents asked you to protect me when we stood at the altar. Which vow matters more?"

Anson opened his mouth, but no words came out. He looked at Bella, then back at me, his silence answering the question louder than any excuse could.

I looked at Bella. She was watching me through the gap in Anson's arm, a tiny, triumphant smirk playing at the corner of her mouth before she quickly hid it behind another sob.

I didn't feel angry anymore. The fiery rage that usually consumed me during these fights had completely burned out. There was nothing left but ash.

"You're right," I said quietly.

Anson blinked, caught off guard by my sudden agreement. "I am?"

"She does only have you." I reached for my left hand. "And now, you only have her."

I gripped the diamond ring on my finger. It slid off easily. Too easily.

"What are you doing?" Anson demanded, his voice laced with sudden panic.

I walked forward and placed the platinum band on the center of his desk. The metal clinked against the polished wood, ringing out like a final bell.

"Ivy, put that back on."

"No."

"Stop throwing a tantrum. I told you, nothing happened between us."

"It doesn't matter if you slept with her or not, Anson." I met his gaze one last time. "You chose her. You choose her every single day. I'm done waiting for my turn."

"You can't just walk out!" he shouted, taking a step away from Bella.

"I just did."

I turned on my heel and walked toward the door.

"Ivy!"

I didn't stop. I didn't look back. I stepped into the hallway and let the heavy oak door click shut behind me.

Inside the office, Anson stared at the glittering diamond resting on his desk. A strange, suffocating tightness gripped his chest, a sudden warning that he had pushed too far. He took a step toward the door, his heart pounding against his ribs.

"Anson?" Bella whimpered, her fingers curling tightly into his shirt. "Are you going to leave me?"

He froze. He looked at the closed door, then down at the trembling woman in his arms.

He didn't chase me. He stayed right where he always did. But as he stared at the empty doorway, a shadow crossed his face, a chilling realization that this time, I wasn't coming back.

"Someone, please help me!"

The boardroom doors slammed open. Bella stumbled into the room, her silk blouse stained brown and clinging to her skin. She collapsed onto the carpet right in front of the executive table.

"Bella?" A board member stood up, knocking his chair backward.

Bella pointed a trembling finger at me. "Ivy, why? I just wanted to apologize for earlier. Why would you push me?"

I stared at her. "I didn't touch you."

"You threw your hot coffee on me!" Bella sobbed, clutching her reddened arm. Blisters were already forming on her skin. "And then you tried to shove me down the stairwell!"

"She grabbed my cup," I told the room, keeping my voice steady. "She poured it on herself and threw herself backward."

"Check the cameras," the VP of Finance said, frowning at me.

"The system glitched," a security guard announced from the doorway. "We lost the last ten minutes of footage in that corridor."

How convenient.

Footsteps pounded down the hall. Anson shoved past the guards and froze. He looked at Bella on the floor, then at the angry red burns on her arms, the torn fabric of her skirt.

He didn't look at me. Not really.

"Security," Anson ordered, his tone like ice. "Escort my wife out of the building."

"Anson," I started.

"Shut up." He knelt beside Bella, wrapping his arms around her shaking frame. "Bella is already pitiful enough, why must you target her?"

The words struck me, but they didn't hurt. Instead, a strange, bubbling sensation rose in my chest.

I laughed.

Tears spilled over my eyelashes and rolled down my cheeks, but my mouth stretched into a wide smile. The executives stared at me like I had lost my mind. Maybe I had. Five years of marriage. Five years of biting my tongue, stepping aside, shrinking myself down so Bella could take up all the space.

"You're right," I whispered.

I unclipped my corporate ID badge from my lapel. I tossed it onto the polished boardroom table. It slid across the wood and stopped right in front of Anson.

"From today on," I said, my voice cutting through Bella's fake sobs, "whether it's this company or you, I don't want either."

I turned around and walked out.

The city noise roared in my ears as I exited the glass building. I stepped off the curb, my mind completely blank.

A horn blared. Tires screeched against the asphalt.

I turned my head just in time to see the grille of a delivery truck rushing toward me.

The impact shattered the air.

Pain exploded through my ribs, throwing me backward. I hit the pavement hard. Warm liquid pooled beneath my head, sticky and metallic.

My vision blurred. Through the haze, across the intersection, I saw him.

Anson.

He was carrying Bella in his arms, rushing toward his parked car. He didn't turn around. He didn't hear the crash, or if he did, he didn't care. He just kept walking, taking my entire world away with him.

Darkness swallowed me whole.

"Mrs. Gallagher?"

I blinked against the harsh fluorescent lights. The smell of bleach stung my nose.

A doctor stood at the foot of my hospital bed, holding a clipboard. His expression was grim.

"You suffered a mild concussion and two cracked ribs," he said softly. "But I need to tell you about the other complication."

I didn't speak. I just stared at his moving lips.

"The trauma from the crash was too severe. You lost the baby. I am so sorry."

A baby.

Two months. I had bought a tiny pair of knit socks just last week, hiding them in my top drawer. I was waiting for the right moment to tell Anson.

I didn't scream. I didn't cry. The hollow space in my chest simply expanded, turning into a vast, empty void.

"Where do I sign?" I asked, my voice completely flat.

The doctor blinked, startled by my lack of emotion. "You need rest. We should keep you for observation."

"I want the discharge papers."

Ten minutes later, I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled out my phone. I dialed my lawyer's number.

"Ivy? It's late. What's wrong?"

"Prepare the divorce papers," I told him.

"What? Are you sure?"

"Just draft them. Today."

I hung up.

The automatic doors slid open, releasing me into the crisp evening air. I hugged my thin sweater tightly around my chest, shivering against the sudden chill.

A black Rolls-Royce glided up to the curb, its tires silent against the concrete.

The rear door swung open.

A man stepped out. He was tall, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit that screamed old money. His jawline was sharp, his dark eyes locked entirely on me. He didn't hesitate. He walked straight up to me, shrugged off his suit jacket, and draped it over my shoulders.

The fabric smelled like cedar and expensive cologne.

"Finally found you, Ivy," he murmured, his voice a low, rich baritone.

I stared up at him, confusion piercing through my numbness. "Who are you?"

An older man stepped out from the passenger side, offering a polite bow. "This is Mr. Leon Ashford, the sole heir of the Ashford family in New York."

My stomach dropped.

Ashford.

Anson's family had been at war with the Ashfords for twenty years. They were ruthless rivals, tearing each other apart in boardrooms and stock markets.

Leon reached out, his fingers lightly brushing a stray lock of hair away from my bruised forehead. His eyes held a depth of sorrow that made absolutely no sense. He looked at me not as a stranger, but as a man who had been searching for a ghost.

"Why are you here?" I whispered.

Leon's thumb lingered near my cheekbone. "To give you everything Anson threw away."

He stepped closer, blocking out the streetlights.

"Starting with his destruction. Are you ready?"