I begged Dylan Leveson three hundred and four times to take my dying dad on one last trip out to sea.

Guess what? He bailed.

I stood on the shore, watching the warmth fade from my dad's body, breath by breath—alone—while Dylan played Romeo in the highlands.

Millie Stone—his forever flame—posted a cozy little selfie:

[Far from the world, as long as I have you.]

I accidentally hit like. Dylan popped up instantly.

[How many times have I told you to leave Millie alone? Can't control yourself? We're getting a divorce!]

Oh, the classic divorce threat. I'd lost count.

[Cool. Divorce it is.]

By the time I got through my dad's funeral, it was already past midnight.

And yep—Millie had just dropped another update.

She and Dylan were out there, chilling by a bonfire with the locals, stargazing like it was some indie movie.

Dylan—who never posted anything—left a comment under her photo:

[As long as you like it.]

Our mutual friends flooded them with blessings.

They all knew I was his wife, but still treated Dylan and Millie like the real couple.

I felt like the extra—like I snuck in while Millie was on a coffee break.

Dylan huffed and puffed over a beach trip with me, but for her? He was suddenly fine hiking up where the air's thinner than his excuses.

I could beg a hundred times—it'd never beat one look from Millie.

I was done.

After everything, I stood on the hospital rooftop, staring at the pale moonlight over Seavora.

That's when Dylan finally called. Not to ask how I was. Not a word about the funeral.

Just to circle back to what I'd said hours ago.

"You bring up divorce every other day. Aren't you tired of this?"

No, Dylan. You're the one who kept throwing that word around.

I was ready to clap back—then didn't.

Why bother?

He thought I'd never leave. Thought I was too in love, too loyal, too scared to walk.

That's why he dangled divorce like a threat.

Because for eight years, I always folded.

He made it look like I was using it to mess with him.

But this time? The first time I said it?

It was the last.

"My dad's gone," I said. "No need to keep faking the loving husband act for him."

Dylan went quiet. When he finally spoke, his voice had that fake soft edge.

"Where are you? I'll come keep you company."

Where was I?

Was he seriously about to ditch Millie and hop on a twelve-hour flight just for me?

Yeah, right.

But he'd already hung up.

I just wanted to go home and crash, but somewhere between the rooftop and the stairs, everything went black.

I must've passed out and taken a tumble.

***

When I came to, I was in a hospital bed.

The nurse who'd helped care for my dad spotted me and said I'd fainted from low blood sugar and tumbled down the stairs.

Mild concussion. Needed to be monitored.

Then she asked if any family was with me.

I checked my phone. Nothing from Dylan. Not even a text.

But Millie? She'd posted again:

[The thin mountain air is no joke! We were having fun all day and then suddenly I just collapsed. Luckily you were there for me.]

The photo? Her holding Dylan's hand.

And the kicker?

On his finger was a wedding ring from me.

And the matching one?

On hers.

I remembered not too long ago, when I was dead tired from taking care of Dad and forgot to make Dylan dinner, he shot me this annoyed look.

"Judy Jolliffe, I've got multi-million-dollar deals waiting for me. I didn't marry you to wait on you."

Right. But now he could drop the company for three whole days—just to play house with Millie.

It's not that he didn't know how to love.

He just never loved me.

And yeah, I still remembered the night Millie left the country.

Dylan was at some bar, drinking like the world had ended, crying about how she'd betrayed him—swearing he'd never forgive her.

That was the first time we met.

I didn't even say much. Just sat there and listened because he looked so heartbreakingly alone.

After that night, he went all in. Full-on pursuit.

I thought it was love.

Thought I was the one.

But the second Millie came back, everything flipped.

He stopped coming home. Squeezed every spare second to be with her.

Eight years wiped away her betrayal—but not his feelings for her.

Turns out, I was just the stand-in.

A clown stealing a little joy while the real star was offstage.

I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and texted Dylan:

[Let me know when you're back. I'll bring the papers—you sign, we go to the courthouse, and it's done.]

He replied faster than he ever had before:

[Millie's sick. She really needs me. Don't make a scene. Just stay home and wait for me.]

Yeah, no. Like I had time to sit around waiting on him.

The nurse told me I needed rest, so I signed myself in for a hospital stay.

Honestly, after two straight months here taking care of Dad, the nurses felt more like family than Dylan ever did.

And Dylan—he was the one who chased me. Married me.

He knew my dad was all I had.

He knew I was a foundling, a kid my dad had taken in and raised like his own. No mom. No siblings. No backup plan.

Dylan promised he'd be my family. Said he'd be there forever.

Eight years later? Still alone.

And the worst part? After all those empty promises... we didn't even have a child.

***

I stayed in the hospital for a week.

Once the doctor cleared me, I went home.

Dylan hadn't called. Not once.

I didn't even bother checking social to see what tropical love nest he and Millie had flown off to.

When I opened the door, there he was—standing in the living room, phone to his ear, frowning like I was the problem.

"I told you to wait at home. Where did you go?"

He pocketed his phone. Probably just realized I wasn't home and was about to call—not because he cared, but to scold me.

"I fell down the stairs. Just got discharged," I said.

He looked like he wanted to say something—then didn't.

Dropped it and flopped onto the couch, rubbing his forehead.

"I'm hungry. Cook me something."

I walked right past him and headed upstairs.

He kicked the suitcase and snapped, "Judy Jolliffe! Is this how a wife acts?"

Hand on the banister, I turned just enough.

"A wife? Isn't that Millie now? What's that got to do with me?"

Then I kept going, didn't look back.

Downstairs, I heard him kicking the coffee table.

I just locked the bedroom door.

He hadn't set foot in here in forever anyway.

I woke to morning light after a short rest.

Back then, I would've jumped up to prep everything for Dylan's day.

Didn't matter, though—he always had something to nitpick.

Wrong shirt.

Breakfast too basic.

Called me petty, said I wasn't "presentable."

So eventually, I stopped trying.

But when I came downstairs, I actually froze for a second.

Dylan was cleaning up the broken glass from the coffee table.

Now that was a first.

He looked up when he heard me coming, then looked away like that made everything disappear.

"I know your father's passing hit you hard. But I came back yesterday just for you—and you're still jealous of Millie?"

Yesterday?

"Being five days late counts as coming back for me?"

He slammed the broom down.

"You don't even remember what day it is? You forgot our wedding anniversary?"

He pointed at some gift box on the couch.

"With that attitude, you really think you're any match for Millie—"

He froze.

I smiled.

"Our anniversary was the day BEFORE yesterday."

He looked like he wanted to disappear. Switched gears fast.

"You said you fell down the stairs. What happened?"

"Nothing," I said. "Spent the day handling Dad's stuff. Stood on the beach all night without eating. Passed out from low blood sugar."

"To you, Millie's highland drama obviously takes top billing," I added. "So no hard feelings."

Dylan clamped his mouth shut, fingers twitching like he was trying to reboot.

"You hungry? I made a reservation—French place. Your fave. Let's go."

"Hard pass." I shook my head. "I'm wiped. And FYI? I hate French food. I'm small-town, remember? One raw oyster and I'm in the ER."

I wasn't about to waste energy on his last-minute guilt trip.

***

I wasn't the one obsessed with French food. That was all Millie.

Miss artsy-boho-wanders-the-world-for-"inspiration."

To Dylan and his crowd, I was just the small-town extra—background noise. A nobody trying too hard to climb into their world, hanging onto Dylan like a desperate groupie.

He never said it out loud, but not once did he shut them down when they trashed me.

He hesitated, then said, "I've just been swamped. The highlands trip with Millie? Totally work. She's hunting for inspiration for our next line. Not really your thing, so don't hold it against her."

Right. Heaven forbid I feel anything other than pure admiration for Saint Millie.

To him, she practically glowed. Even when she dumped him before, he spun it into some tragic story—like she just had to leave and cried the whole way.

Homewrecker? Millie? Never. That would mess up her aesthetic.

I nodded, zoning out. "Cool. Don't you have work? Go be busy."

He frowned. "Can't you just be a little more considerate? Everything I do—I do it for US. If you pitched in more, maybe I wouldn't be drowning."

"Relax. You won't have to anymore."

The divorce lawyer I messaged earlier had just replied. Meeting's set.

I turned to head upstairs and change.

"Get back here!" he barked. "I say ONE thing and you descend into sulking? Truly, is this how a proper wife conducts herself?"

The way he said it, you'd think we were starring in Downton Abbey.

He tried to follow me but tripped over the glass still scattered across the floor.

Eight years of drama? That was his daily routine, not mine.

I didn't even blink. Just changed, walked back down, and breezed right past him.

***

Right after I met with the divorce lawyer, Dylan texted me:

[Mom wants to see you. Come to the Leveson Estate. Now.]

I couldn't care less about Dylan—but his mom, Patricia? She was different.

She treated me like I actually mattered. Like family.

The last thing I wanted was to hurt her.

When I got to the Leveson Estate, where Patricia and Yana were staying, I rushed in—only to walk straight into a laugh track.

"She's like a leech," Yana snorted, draped all over Millie. "I used Dylan's phone to send that message and look—she actually showed. Girl only snagged him with that body. But now that you're back"—she flashed Millie a smug smile—"you're the only sister-in-law I claim."

Millie let out this dainty little laugh and glanced my way. "Yana, be nice. She's small-town, remember? She's gotta play dirty. Poor thing just doesn't know better."

Right. According to them, I only married Dylan because I was desperate.

A nobody who wasn't even in the league.

And Millie? She was the golden girl. The one who belonged.

I was just the extra. Disposable. Forgettable.

I looked at Yana. "Apologize."

She smirked. "Why would I?"

"Cool." I held up my phone. "I recorded everything. I'll just loop it for your mom."

Their faces dropped.

Patricia might be sweet, but she doesn't play when her son's ex starts trash-talking—especially if it's aimed at someone close to Dylan.

If she heard that mess, Yana was 100 percent getting called out.