Chapter 2

2

Logan and I were childhood sweethearts and lifelong equals.

We had once been each other's fiercest competitors and most devoted partners.

Throughout our seven-year marriage, he would secretly reserve a table at my favorite steakhouse whenever I pulled late nights, and I would always have warm honey water waiting for him after heavy networking dinners.

We were like two towering oaks growing side by side.

Our roots intertwined deeply beneath the soil, our branches brushing against each other, yet each reaching independently toward the sky.

Whenever I stayed up late drafting proposals, Logan would walk into my home office and drape his cashmere blazer over my shoulders.

"Working this hard? Are you trying to exhaust me so you can replace me with a softer husband?"

He would gently pinch my cheek with a fond grin.

"Too much espresso ruins your skin. I'll make you organic bone broth tomorrow."

When I once lost a crucial corporate bid, he tossed the file onto my desk with sharp professionalism.

"Is this the level of excellence I should expect from my equal partner?"

Yet at midnight, he showed up in our bedroom holding a box of artisanal dark chocolate truffles, whispering softly, "You look awful when you cry."

If I so much as cleared my throat, Logan would frantically call our private physician.

"I can't have my brilliant wife falling ill."

He would take my cold feet into his warm palms, rubbing them gently.

"The lady of the house isn't allowed to freeze."

On my birthdays, I could never guess what grand surprise he had prepared.

It could be a rare piece from a prestigious Manhattan gallery, or VIP passes to a midnight food festival we used to sneak into in college.

As I unwrapped his gifts, he would always whisper against my ear, "Guess what it is. If you're wrong, your penalty is a kiss."

Everything shattered the moment Maisie Lane walked into our company.

Our conversations dwindled into empty silence.

In the past, Logan would kick off his oxfords at the front door and ask what I had eaten for lunch.

Now, he walked straight past me into his private study, tossing out a cold, "I already ate."

He stopped remembering my health details.

Last month, when severe cramps left me breaking out in a cold sweat on the living room sofa, he didn't return home until ten at night.

Seeing me curled up on the rug, he merely furrowed his brow with mild annoyance.

"Why are you sitting on the floor?"

He never carried me to bed, nor did he warm a heat pack for my stomach like he used to.

He stopped caring about my schedule, and I stopped updating him on mine.

One night, noticing the light on under his study door, I pushed it open.

He slammed his laptop shut with frantic speed, but not before I caught a glimpse of his private chat window with Maisie.

Our dinner table no longer saw shared plates or lingering glances.

He even forgot our seventh wedding anniversary.

When I brought it up, he froze for two seconds, his eyes darting away with guilt.

"I've just been swamped at the office lately."

Yet that very night, I saw the notification pop up on his phone in the dim hallway: "Did you have fun at the arcade today, Maisie?"

Eventually, we stopped even bothering to argue.

When he ignored me, I scrolled silently through market news; when I gave him the cold shoulder, he simply signed his executive documents.

We had become two detached roommates, sharing a roof with icy, polite indifference.