Chapter 1

Every time my husband went to stay with his childhood sweetheart, I burned one of the love letters he once wrote me.

I had just burned the ninety-ninth one.

"Yara is terrified of the dark, and she can't be left alone right now. Besides, it's not like we can be intimate while you're pregnant. I'll be back tomorrow morning."

I calmly pulled out a medical report.

Sterling was in such a rush to get to her that he signed the bottom without even looking at the text. He tried to pacify me with a fake smile.

"Once Yara is discharged from the hospital, I'll take you to your next prenatal checkup, okay?"

I looked into his eyes and obediently said okay.

I didn't tell him that the medical report was actually a record of my miscarriage.

And the paper he had just signed was a formal divorce petition.

The man carelessly tossed the pen aside and handed the signed paper back to me.

He even had the nerve to ask with feigned concern, "Is something going on at home? We could always go visit your family together after Yara is out of the hospital."

Meeting his gentle, lying eyes, I whispered, "Sure. Whatever you say."

Seeing that I wasn't throwing a tantrum like I usually did, Sterling's brow furrowed slightly.

But his mind was already with Yara Sinclair. He grabbed a thermal lunch box and hurried out the door.

I instinctively reached for my wooden keepsake box, wanting to burn another letter.

But the box was empty. There was nothing left.

I stared at the empty velvet lining, lost in a daze.

Years ago, when Sterling was desperately chasing me, he wrote me ninety-nine love letters.

I was moved by his apparent sincerity. I moved thousands of miles away from the bright lights of D.C. to this dusty, rural town in Wyoming just to be his wife.

But that sincerity only lasted until his childhood friend was hospitalized.

Today was supposed to be my birthday. Sterling had bought tickets weeks ago, promising to take me to a Broadway-style show in the city.

I waited outside the theater all afternoon in the cold. All I got was a text: "Sorry, Winona. Yara is in the hospital alone. I can't leave her like this."

When he finally came home, he reeled of jasmine. I choked back my tears and said it was fine.

I pretended I didn't know that jasmine was the scent of the expensive French cream Yara always used.

That night, I burned the first letter.

Since he had given me ninety-nine letters, I decided to give him ninety-nine chances.

Every time he chose Yara over me, I burned one.

On March 29th, Yara said her leg hurt and she needed him. I burned the second letter.

On May 6th, Yara said she was scared of the dark. I burned the third.

On July 21st, Yara said her medicine was too bitter and she needed him to coax her. I burned the fourth.

He abandoned me over and over again, all for the sake of Yara Sinclair.

Three days ago, he abandoned me for the ninety-ninth time. And I burned the very last letter.