Chapter 1

The smell of gumbo, rich with andouille sausage and shrimp, filled our small New Orleans house. It was the scent of my past, a life I had packed away five years ago for Ethan. Tonight was our fifth anniversary, and I' d spent all day recreating the Creole feast my grandmother taught me, a secret rebellion of sorts.

The front door opened, and Ethan walked in, not with flowers, but with a pre-packed weekend bag slung over his shoulder. He didn't even glance at the table I'd set with our best china.

"Hey, Jo. Something came up at work. Big client emergency. I gotta run."

His eyes darted around the room, avoiding mine. He was a terrible liar.

"On our anniversary?" I asked, my voice flat.

"I know, baby, I'm so sorry. I'll make it up to you, I promise. Next year, we'll do something huge."

He gave me a quick, dry kiss on the cheek and was gone. The door clicked shut, leaving me alone with the cooling gumbo and the ghost of a celebration.

I didn't cry. I didn't throw things. I just sat there, scrolling through my phone, a numb routine. That's when I saw it. Sabrina Chavez, his high school sweetheart, had just posted on Instagram.

It was a picture of her and Ethan at a Napa Valley vineyard, the sun setting behind them. He had his arm around her, and she was holding up a case of boutique wine, a wide, triumphant smile on her face. The designer bag he' d bought her last month was sitting on the table next to them.

The caption read: "Some bonds are just timeless. #soulmates."

My thumb hovered over the screen. Then, with a strange sense of calm, I pressed the heart icon. I liked the post.

Almost instantly, my phone rang. It was Ethan. His voice was a frantic whisper.

"Jo? Did you see that? It's not what it looks like. Sabrina' s just going through a lot right now, she needed a friend."

I listened to the hum of the refrigerator.

"I'll make it up to you, I swear. Next year will be different."

I took a slow breath, the scent of my forgotten dinner filling my lungs.

"Don't worry about it, Ethan," I said, my voice quiet but clear. "There won't be a next year."