On my sixteenth birthday, my mom and I drove to pick up the dress I had ordered for my party.

But what awaited us at home wasn't a surprise party.

It was my father, slow dancing cheek-to-cheek with his secretary in our living room to "Fly Me to the Moon."

That very night, my parents signed their separation agreement.

From that day on, the song became a nightmare, a raw wound I couldn’t bear to touch.

On the night I married Julian, the CEO of Aethelred Biotech, I whispered in his ear between his possessive kisses.

"Darling, if you ever want to end our marriage, just play this song for me."

He tightened his arms around me, his breath ghosting across the nape of my neck as he silenced me with a deeper kiss.

"Don't be silly, Evelyn. You're my one and only. How could I ever let you go?"

Later, at his birthday party, his intern, Brooke, requested that song.

Julian's face hardened. He had the music cut and Brooke thrown out.

At the time, I was touched and even tried to convince him not to be so harsh on a young woman just starting her career.

But six months later, Brooke was promoted to his personal assistant.

On my birthday, she posted a video on Instagram.

She and Julian were cuddled together in a Central Park carriage, with "Fly Me to the Moon" playing, loud and clear, in the background.

I called Julian and told him to handle it.

His tone on the other end of the line was dismissive.

"Brooke just thinks the song is romantic. Don't be so childish, Evelyn. It’s not like you to make a big deal out of a song and a hug."

The phone slipped from my hand.

Turns out, my mother was right.

Some songs are just the soundtrack for a divorce.

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1

Brooke anonymously sent that video and an ultrasound photo to my work email.

The photo showed a twelve-week pregnancy.

The irony was staggering.

Three months ago, Aethelred Biotech needed a new targeted agent for a core patent development.

Julian had told me that a pregnancy would interfere with my physical data and could cause the entire clinical trial to fail.

So, for the sake of the company, I joined a clinical trial myself—one with a known risk of permanent infertility.

I medically suppressed my menstrual cycle to ensure I wouldn't get pregnant.

Three months later, he’d gotten another woman pregnant.

Twelve weeks. The timing was a cruel joke.

While I was pulling all-nighters in the lab, risking my health for his company, Julian was bringing Brooke into our home.

The sofa, the study, even the spot in front of our wedding photo—the lingering scent of them clung to everything.

The bedroom that once brought me comfort now just turned my stomach.

I heard a key turn in the front door lock.

Julian stumbled in, reeking of alcohol. He wrapped his arms around me from behind, dangling a velvet box in front of my face, his voice a low, magnetic hum.

"The latest from Van Cleef & Arpels. Do you like them?"

"It's past midnight, Julian. My birthday is over." I glanced at the earrings, my heart feeling like a desolate cavern.

I'm not obsessed with jewelry, but those earrings looked strikingly familiar.

This afternoon, Brooke had flaunted the exact same pair in her video.

Bulk purchase? Buy-one-get-one-free?

Did it even matter?

No. Not anymore.

I suppressed the wave of nausea rising in my throat and calmly turned to face him.

"We need to talk."

Julian assumed I was still angry about the song. A flash of impatience crossed his eyes as he let go of me.

"She just wanted to surprise you; she didn't know about your trauma. Besides, I've already told her off."

"Evelyn, stop making a scene, will you? Running the company is exhausting enough."

He rubbed his temples, a weary look on his face, as if I were some irrational, hysterical woman.

I was about to say more, but his phone suddenly lit up.

He glanced at the screen, and the weariness on his face melted into an eager smile.

He snatched up his phone, a smirk playing on his lips as he typed a reply and headed for the study.

Watching his broad back, a humorless smile touched my lips.

We had been in love for ten years and married for seven.

We’d gone from having nothing in a university lab to building a billion-dollar company.

But Julian was no longer the boy who would pull all-nighters with me to cram for finals.

This Julian, the CEO, had no room for me in his life.

From the safe under the coffee table, I took out the divorce papers I had drafted long ago.

I glanced down at my fingertips, calloused from years of handling chemical reagents, and a small, dry laugh escaped me.

This time, the laugh held a hint of relief.

I took out my phone and called my mentor.

"Professor Finch, that special research project you mentioned at the top research institute on the West Coast... is there still a spot for me?"

A few seconds of silence, followed by an ecstatic shout.

"Of course! It's a top-tier project for tackling Alzheimer's! Evelyn, the security clearance is extremely high. Once you join, you can't leave for five years. You're Aethelred's chief scientist; will your husband agree? Without your core technology, your company's stock will plummet."

I signed my name at the bottom of the document, my voice firm.

"Professor, I'm getting a divorce."

Cheers erupted on the other end of the line; my future colleagues were clearly eavesdropping.

"We knew that Julian guy was bad news! Glad your head is finally out of the clouds."

"Evelyn, come back to us! We old-timers are all waiting for you."

"Don't be sad. Men only get in the way of good data."

My mentor jokingly shushed them before speaking seriously.

"Evelyn, the West Coast Biological Research Institute's Special Unit 707 is officially extending an invitation. Report for duty immediately! We leave in two days. Settle your affairs."

I hung up and went into the guest room.

Before, no matter how late Julian came home, I had insisted on sleeping in our bed, clinging to the hope of catching his familiar scent on the pillows.

But now, only the guest room felt untainted.

The next day, I slept until one in the afternoon.

The deep sleep, after three months of grueling work on the clinical trial, felt restorative.

I checked my phone. The screen was flooded with congratulations on the excellent data from the trial's first phase. The board members were all praising the CEO's brilliant leadership.

Julian was frantically tagging me in the company group chat, promising me rare stock options and a massive year-end bonus.

Looking at the hypocritical praise, I felt nothing.

I lay in bed a while longer, then got up and walked out with the papers.

The living room was empty.

On the coffee table was a reservation confirmation for a three-star Michelin restaurant, a place we used to frequent for our anniversaries. Beside it was a sticky note in his flamboyant script.

"7 p.m. tonight. See you there."

This was Julian's idea of an apology—a scrap thrown to a pet.

After a moment's thought, I decided to go.

Not to save this fractured marriage, but to end it.

After all, Julian had proposed to me in this very restaurant seven years ago. We were at City Hall the next day.

It was fitting to bring things full circle.

At 5 p.m., I placed the papers and the reservation confirmation in my bag and slipped on a simple gray cashmere dress.

Usually, I would have spent hours meticulously getting ready for a date with Julian. It was a ritual I once performed with giddy anticipation, but now it felt pointless. I didn't even bother waiting for him, just grabbed a burger at a fast-food joint downstairs.

By the time I arrived at the restaurant, it was already 6:50 p.m.

I sent Julian a text, but he didn't reply.

I shook my head and, instead of waiting in the cold wind as I used to, I went inside alone.

Just then, a notification lit up my phone.

Brooke had posted a new update, deliberately tagging me.

"Missed the candlelight dinner, but I got the starlight of an entire amusement park. The moon is so beautiful tonight!"

In the photo, she was at the top of a Ferris wheel on Long Island, her hand held tightly by a larger one.

The man's face wasn't visible, but the sapphire signet ring on his thumb—a symbol of the Croft family's power—was one I knew better than anyone.

So, even the anniversary dinner I had looked forward to was just a leftover he had casually tossed aside.

He was on her time now.

I told myself I didn't care.

A familiar, dull ache tightened in my chest, stealing my breath for a moment.

But I found I had grown used to the suffocating feeling; it didn't even slow my steps.

He'd broken countless promises in our seven years of marriage. Why should this last one matter?

As long as he signed those divorce papers, he could watch the moon from a Ferris wheel with anyone he pleased.

After dinner, I trudged home alone.

Passing through the old part of town, I paused.

The cheap pizza place where we used to scrape together money for a meal had become a chic dessert boutique.

The city had changed. People change.

Even our fondest memories, of leaning on each other when we had nothing, felt like relics from another life.

At 1 a.m., I returned to our cold home.

The living room lights were blazing.

Julian was on the sofa, frowning as he fiddled with his phone. When he saw me walk in, his anxiety morphed into anger, and he strode toward me.

"What's wrong with you? Not answering your phone, not replying to my texts. Do you have any idea how worried I was?"

Was he actually waiting for me? Or was he just furious that I’d stood him up and bruised his ego?

It didn't matter. Once I was gone, Brooke could move right into the master bedroom, the prize she so desperately wanted.