Chapter 3
When I walk in the door, Mike’s sitting on the couch, legs casually sprawled like he owns the world, beer in one hand, tapping the other against the armrest like he’s in some chilled-out domestic commercial.
The picture-perfect, laid-back husband. Except it doesn’t feel right. Nothing feels right anymore.
He looks up when I close the door, eyebrows drawn together in a way that would’ve once made me melt. Now it just makes my stomach twist.
“Hey,” he says softly, like he’s been waiting for me. “Came home early. You sounded bad on the phone. Everything okay?”
Everything okay? I can’t even remember the last time I felt okay. But I nod and smile, tight, mechanical. Like my face knows the routine even if my heart forgot the choreography. I brush past him and head to the kitchen, because I need a barrier. A counter. A second to breathe .
My head is a blender, and someone left the lid off. Kiera. The hoodie. The quiet avalanche of things I’ve been ignoring because they were too big to name. The lies Mike tells like they’re throw pillows, small, soft, and meant to make things look better than they are.
“I’m fine,” I say, grabbing a glass, filling it with water. My voice is too clipped. Too cold. “Just… work stuff. A deal went bad, and they tried to pin it on me. So, I quit.”
He sits up straighter. “What exactly happened?”
His voice is laced with something that’s trying to pass for concern, but there’s a sharpness underneath. Like he’s digging for something. I cross my arms over my chest, like I can physically keep everything in.
“I can’t say,” I tell him. “Confidentiality. You know how it is.”
He nods, slowly, like he’s pretending to get it. “Right. Sure. But hey, if you ever wanna talk about it, I’m here for you.”
And God, for half a second, I want to believe him.
I want to believe that his eyes really mean it, that he’s the guy who used to hold my face in his hands like I was breakable and priceless.
But something inside me clenches. Because it’s too much.
The softness. The timing. The careful tone.
It all feels like a performance I’ve seen before, like he’s overcompensating .
He comes around the counter and wraps his arms around me, pulling me in like I’m something precious. And my body wants to believe it. But my brain, my gut, won’t shut up. I can’t relax into it. I feel stiff, fake, like I’m playing a role in someone else’s fantasy.
I pull away. Gently. Just enough.
I move to the grocery bags and start putting things away like the world isn’t crumbling under my feet. “What happened with your car?” I ask, as casually as I can manage.
He shrugs. “No idea. Just wouldn’t start this morning. I’ll call the tow truck tomorrow.”
“Mmhmm.”
I don’t say anything else. Don’t look at him. Just nod and keep stacking cans like they’re going to save me.
“Listen,” he says, already turning away, already texting. “I’m gonna hop in the shower. Call me when dinner’s here?”
He kisses the top of my head like it means something and disappears upstairs. I hear the water turn on.
And then I move.
My heart is thundering, fingers trembling as I snatch his keys off the hook. I don’t even think, I just go. Out the door, into the driveway, into the car. My breath is shallow. I brace myself for silence .
I turn the key.
The engine roars to life without a single protest.
I sit there for a second, just breathing, just blinking at the dashboard like it betrayed me.
My throat closes. Because a big part of me, a big, hopeful, desperate part of me, was hoping I was wrong.
That I was just being paranoid. That grief and stress and burnout had made me suspicious and twitchy.
But no.
He lied.
I press my forehead to the steering wheel and close my eyes. My whole body feels like it’s buzzing, like my bones are vibrating from the inside out. Then I see the delivery guy pulling up, headlights washing over me like a spotlight.
I climb out, pay for the food, smile too wide. Take the bags inside like everything’s fine.
All I want to do is cry. But instead, I compose myself. Straighten my spine. And call him for dinner.
He comes down in sweatpants, rubbing a towel through his hair, looking like nothing is wrong. Like he didn’t lie to my face. We eat in silence for a few minutes before I say it, quiet and deliberate:
“So… who picked you up this morning?”
He looks up. “Huh? ”
“Your car,” I say, picking at a dumpling. “It broke down, right? So, who did you call?”
He blinks. “Greg. I called Greg.”
Greg. The most made-up name in the world. Except, unfortunately for him, there is a Greg at his office. One who wouldn’t drive five minutes for his own wedding, let alone Mike’s half-baked car drama.
I don’t push it. Not yet.
“So,” he says after a pause, “you gonna look for another job?”
I take a sip of water. Stare at him over the rim. “Eventually.”
He nods. “Thought you liked it there?”
“Yeah, I did. I do. I’m good at my job.” I don’t mean to sound defensive, but my voice comes out hard. “But it doesn’t matter. Not when you’re a woman in a boys’ club.” I’ve been the legal counsel for Marx Media, a subsidiary of Marx Corporation for five years now.
He stays quiet.
“Ever since they hired Leonard six months ago as President. He’s been trying to fire me from week one. Even had the audacity to smile in my face while hiring my replacement and calling him my ‘second counsel.’”
Mike’s fork clinks against his plate. “Chris, right? ”
I nod. Young. Male. Ambitious. ‘Strong male presence,’ Leonard said. Because apparently my uterus is a liability.
“So, what now?” he asks. “You wanna stay home for a while?”
“I thought you wanted me to stay home,” I reply, watching him closely.
“Of course I do,” he says. “But you’re so… independent. I wasn’t sure if that’s what you wanted.”
He says it like it’s a compliment. Like I’m supposed to be grateful he noticed.
“I can’t right now anyway,” I say, dragging my chopsticks through the sauce like it’s a battlefield. “I haven’t sent in my resignation yet. It was just verbal. I’m going to type one out later.”
“You gonna send it to Leonard?” he asks, casually, like we’re talking about printer paper or what colour to paint the guest bathroom.
I snort. “Out of courtesy, I should. But screw it. I’m emailing it directly to the CEO.”
He raises an eyebrow like I’m being dramatic. I don’t care.
“Whatever you think is right,” he says, standing, scraping his plate with all the flair of a man who thinks his job here is done. He sets it in the sink like that’s some noble gesture, rinses it off like it absolves him of anything. “I’m gonna head to bed. You coming?”
“No,” I murmur, not looking up. “I’m going to write the letter.”
He nods. That’s it. Just nods. Then leaves me sitting there with cold dumplings, a half-truth in my mouth, and a scream clawing at the back of my throat.
I carry my half-eaten plate to the sink, and that’s when I see it. My reflection in the kitchen window. Dim, watery, backlit by soft recessed lighting that somehow makes me look like a ghost of myself. My own eyes feel like strangers.
Why do men cheat?
It hits me out of nowhere. Like a slap. Like the question has always been sitting in the room but now it finally dares to speak.
Did he get bored?
Was I not enough?
The words feel juvenile. Naive. But they still stick. Cling. Wrap around my throat like ivy.
It can’t be my body. I know that sounds conceited, but screw it.
It’s not. I’m still the same size I was when we met- 5'6", brunette, the kind of figure that fills out jeans like a lifestyle ad. If anything, I’m fitter. I’ve been running every morning for a year, sweating out anxiety like its poison and somehow still managing to look good doing it.
And yes, I’ve seen the way other men look at me. So no, it’s not about looks.
So then what?
Did I get too smart? Too tired? Too mouthy?
Was it that I stopped laughing at his jokes when they weren’t funny?
Or that I started calling him out when he got lazy with me?
Because here's the brutal truth: I loved him better than he ever asked to be loved. I saw parts of him he didn’t even want to admit existed and held them gently like secrets I was lucky to be trusted with.
But maybe that’s the problem.
Maybe I knew him too well. Maybe I made it too real.
Maybe he needed someone who doesn’t notice the pause in his voice when he lies. Who doesn’t recognize the sudden softness as guilt. Who won’t get in his car and find out he’s full of shit.
I press my fingers to my eyes. My chest aches like grief and rage are having a knife fight inside it. I feel stupid. And furious. And… heartbreakingly numb.
I should go upstairs. Crawl into bed next to him and pretend I don’t know. Pretend I’m still the wife who believes in his made-up stories and maybe in fairy tales .
But instead, I open my laptop.
Because if I’m losing everything- my job, my trust, the life I thought I had- I might as well burn the rest of it down on my terms.
And then I’ll decide what rises from the ashes .