Chapter 1

I waited at the steakhouse for three hours to celebrate our third anniversary, only to receive a cold text from my husband.

When I saw him gently shielding his "fragile" ex-girlfriend from the rain, I knew our marriage was already dead in all but name.

1.

I waited at the restaurant until eleven on our third wedding anniversary.

The dishes on the table had been reheated three times before going cold again. The candles burned down to the very bottom, their flames licking the foil holders.

The waiter came over and asked, "Mrs. Gibson, would you like to head home now?"

I told him yes.

As I settled the bill and walked out, a light rain began to fall. I hadn't brought an umbrella.

My phone lit up. It was a text from Garrett, six words long: "Home late. Go to sleep first."

Light rain. A wedding anniversary. Seven words in total if you counted the period.

I didn't reply.

As the taxi passed the Gibson Group building, I saw a woman standing at the entrance. She was thin and pale with long hair, wearing a beige trench coat under the eaves.

It was Sylvia Vane.

Garrett walked quickly out of the revolving doors. He took off his coat and draped it over her shoulders. Then he bent down and opened an umbrella.

The movements were seamless, as if they had been rehearsed a thousand times.

I knew that angle of his back too well. In three years, he had never bent down for me like that.

I didn't ask the driver to stop.

Back home in the bathroom, I caught the scent of someone else's perfume on my skin. it wasn't mine. I didn't know if I'd picked it up in the taxi or if it was the draft he brought in when he opened his door.

I opened my phone and scrolled to a document in my notes that I'd kept for over six months. The title was "Points Regarding the Divorce."

I had written and deleted, edited and rephrased it twenty-three times.

Tonight, I decided I was done changing it.

I printed the agreement, signed my name, and tucked it into my bag.