"I'm more than grown up, Arturo," I purred. "I'm Mrs. O'Sullivan now."

I smiled as I ordered, just as I used to. "The usual for him. Whiskey, neat." I knew Declan's preferences by heart, right down to which hand he preferred to shoot with.

However, just as the owner nodded, Declan cut in. "No. Change that to the '82 red."

He met my eyes, a flicker of confusion hardening into resolve. "My tastes have changed, Cassia."

My smile froze, but I quickly consoled myself. It's fine. I've lost ten years. People's tastes are bound to change in a decade.

I brushed it off, unwrapping the custom silver cutlery and handing it to him. "Even better. I like red wine, too. We can share."

But Declan didn't take it. Instead, he passed the exquisitely carved knife to the woman who had remained silent.

"Chiara. Take a look at this."

Chiara.

The name made me freeze. In that instant, I understood why she looked so familiar.

Chiara Rizzo. Declan's childhood sweetheart. Back when we were twenty, she was the untouchable Principessa of the Rizzo family.

So some tastes, even after ten years, never changed.

So this was it? This was why, ten years from now, I'd want to end my marriage to the man I’d loved for fifteen years? Just because she was back?

Bitterness coiled in my gut. My fingers traced the strap of my crossbody bag. Inside was the dissolution petition and a sketchbook.

A voice whispered that if I opened that sketchbook, I would find the reason I wanted to leave Declan, but I just gripped the strap tighter, refusing to look.

I loved him.

The twenty-year-old me still loved Declan with everything I had.

At the table, Declan and Chiara conversed as if I wasn't even there.

A bitter jealousy stung my eyes. I deliberately knocked over my wine glass, the sound sharp in the quiet restaurant, just to make him look at me. He didn't even flinch.

Perhaps the thirty-year-old me would have politely excused herself and left with her dignity intact.

But the twenty-year-old me? I didn't know how to feign magnanimity.

I slammed my silverware down with a clatter and snapped, "Declan, I'm furious! And nothing you say is going to fix it this time!"

I grabbed my bag and stormed out of the restaurant.

I loved him. But that didn't mean I wouldn't get angry.

I sat on a bench at the street corner, waiting for him to chase after me, to apologize. But three hours passed, and he never appeared.

My mind felt like a blank slate in a world I didn't recognize, but I somehow managed to get a grip.

It's fine. I'm used to Declan's coldness. Otherwise, I never would have been able to marry him.

I crossed my legs and sent him a message from my encrypted phone: "Darling, where's our home? You know I forgot."

Almost instantly, his reply came. It was the location of a penthouse apartment, along with a cutting remark: "Don't go wandering off with that busted memory of yours. And don't cause me any more trouble."

I ignored the last part, sent him a string of kissy-face emojis, and added playfully, "Thank you, darling!"

When I finally walked into the fortress-like apartment, the emptiness hit me like a wall.

It was a huge space, silent and vacant. There was only one set of toiletries, one pair of slippers, one pillow on the bed.

This place didn't feel like a home for two. It felt like a barracks for one.

So I opened the storage room, found our dusty old photos, and arranged them on the tables.

Then I went online and ordered a mountain of his-and-hers items, carefully placing them in every corner of the house.

I couldn't wait to see the look on Declan's face when he came home and saw the transformed apartment.

When he finally returned, he froze at the doorway, his brow instantly knitting together.

"You're thirty years old, Cassia. Can you stop acting like you're twenty? It's pathetic."

Without even stepping inside, he took down the painting I had hung on the wall and tossed it into the storage room.

A porcelain figurine I had carefully chosen fell from a cabinet and shattered on the floor. I knelt down, picking up the pieces and trying to fit them back together. The jagged cracks looked like poorly stitched scars.

I stroked its little head, consoling the broken thing as if it were alive, my voice a broken whisper. "Shhh, you know how he is... Don't cry..."

I had to console myself yet again.

In the days that followed, I tried every trick I could think of to "run into" him.

When it rained, I showed up with an umbrella at the docks he controlled. He just drove off with Chiara in his luxury car, not even cracking a window as the tires sprayed filthy water all over me.

When I heard he was going to the shooting range, I went early, even taking a last-minute crash course from an instructor to surprise him.

The moment he saw me, he turned around without a word and went to a different private range, leaving me there, utterly humiliated.

Still, I brushed it off. I would keep trying. But Declan never gave me the time of day.

On the sixth day, he finally came home. I had spent the morning in the kitchen preparing a feast, and my hands were raw and blistered.

He rubbed his temples, then scraped every last dish straight into the trash. "Cassia, can you stop with this self-indulgent melodrama? It's exhausting."

I hadn't meant to cry, but the weariness in his voice cut me deep. His dark eyes stared at me with disdain, as if all my efforts were worthless.

Tears welled and spilled, splashing onto the cold floor.

Declan fell silent, then let out a sharp laugh. "What's the act for? After all these years, aren't you used to it by now?"

The same words, when spoken by yourself, are a form of bitter humor. When spoken by someone else, they strip you of all your dignity.

After he left, I sat there, staring at the food in the trash, at this empty house filled with nothing but loneliness.

I thought, Do I really not understand why my thirty-year-old self wanted to end this? Or have I just been refusing to admit it?

That night, I sat at my desk, staring at the sketchbook and the unsigned dissolution petition.

My best friend, Maeve Walsh, had once called and asked me, "What's so special about Declan O'Sullivan? What made you love him for fifteen whole years?"

I could never quite explain it.

When we first met, I could have listed a hundred things I admired about him, but the more I loved him, the less I could say why.

Isn't that how first love works? No logic, no reason. Just pouring everything you are into one person, diving in headfirst and never looking back, even if you shatter into a million pieces on impact.

I snapped the sketchbook shut.

Maybe my thirty-year-old self was too proud, too overwhelmed, so she left the choice to the me who only had twenty years of memories, letting her make the choice for both of us.

Even if it was the very last chance.

I sent Declan a message: "Declan, I was wrong today. I'm sorry. Will you come home tomorrow? Please."