Chapter 2 CONGRATULATIONS, HUSBAND. YOU'RE ON PROBATION!

Nathaniel walked through the front door shortly before eleven o'clock, looking exhausted but very pleased with himself. He loosened his silk tie, tossed his suit jacket over the arm of the sofa, and strode straight into the dining room. "Sophie, sweetheart, I am so sorry I'm late," he said, stepping forward with that confident, half-apologetic smile that used to make my knees weak. He reached out to kiss my forehead, calling me by his favorite private nickname. I didn't move an inch. Instead, I quietly stepped out of my high heels, stood up from the dining table, and took a small step back so his lips missed completely. Nathaniel blinked, his hand pausing midair. He looked at me, then down at the table, where the candles had melted down to little puddles and the beef stew was completely cold. "What's wrong?" he asked, his eyebrows pulling together in confusion. "Is this about the meeting? I texted you. We closed the hotel deal, Soph. It was huge." "I know it was huge," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "In fact, your sister Isabella posted a lovely photo of you on the family group chat. You looked like you were having a wonderful time celebrating with your executives." Nathaniel's expression shifted from confusion to slight defensiveness. "Oh. That. Well, after the contract was signed, the team wanted to grab a quick drink. You know how these things go, Sophie. Business relationships need attention. Important clients expect personal involvement from the CEO." "Do marriages?" I asked softly. He stared at me, completely baffled. "What?" "Do marriages expect personal involvement, Nathaniel? Or can my anniversary dinner just be canceled over text while you raise a glass of champagne with people from the office?" Nathaniel let out a tired sigh and ran a hand through his hair. "You're making a big deal out of nothing. I told you I'm sorry, and Oliver arranged a wonderful gift for you. Did it arrive? That necklace is worth a fortune." I looked over at the small velvet box sitting unopened on the table. "Oh, the necklace? It's lovely. But tell me something, Nathaniel-since you're so good at buying expensive things, do you even remember what my favorite restaurant is?" He opened his mouth, closed it, and frowned. "Of course I do. It's... that French place downtown. With the little candles." "That place closed two years ago," I said flatly. "Well, then whatever the new one is," he muttered, crossing his arms. "Sophie, be reasonable. I work sixty hours a week to give you this penthouse, this lifestyle, private jets, and anything else you could possibly want. Why are you picking a fight over a dinner?" "Because I have never asked you for a private jet, Nathaniel!" My voice rose just a fraction, the frustration finally breaking through my calm exterior. "I didn't marry you for your bank account! I married the sweet guy who used to write me terrible love poems on paper napkins. Do you even remember the name I wanted to give my interior design company before I put it on hold to manage your schedule, organize your family dinners, and buy birthday gifts for your third cousins?" Nathaniel looked away, uncomfortable. "You chose to help out around the house..." "Because you stopped noticing that there even was a house!" I interrupted. "You got so comfortable having a wife who fixed everything for you that you forgot to actually be a husband." He rubbed the back of his neck, looking genuinely irritated now. "Look, it's late, I'm exhausted, and I have another early board meeting tomorrow. Can we please discuss your career ambitions and my supposed shortcomings some other time?" Some other time. Those three words echoed in my head. It was always some other time. Something inside me finally snapped-not with a loud explosion, but with a cold, clear realization. I didn't want to shout anymore. I didn't want to cry. I just wanted my life back. Without saying another word, I turned around, walked over to the kitchen counter, and picked up a blank notebook and a pen. I flipped it open, wrote down a quick list, and walked back to the dining room. Nathaniel watched me, his arms still crossed, though a hint of wary curiosity had crept into his eyes. "What are you doing?" I held up the notebook. "Starting tonight, I am officially going on strike." He let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "A strike? What is this, a labor union?" "Something like that," I replied, my voice steady. "As of right now, I am no longer your personal assistant, your social coordinator, or your housekeeper. I will not prepare your meals, I will not select your suits, I will not manage your family obligations, and I will certainly not attend high-society events just to help maintain your happily married public image." Nathaniel stared at me, trying to figure out if I was joking. "And where do you expect to sleep? On the sofa?" "No," I said smoothly. "I've decided to move into the guest bedroom. Because I am tired of sharing a bed with a man who treats me like a piece of luxury furniture." He laughed again, though it sounded a little more forced this time. "Alright, very funny, Sophie. You proved your point about the anniversary. Do I need to book an appointment with Oliver just to kiss my own wife now?" "Appointments aren't necessary," I replied without blinking. "All kissing privileges have been suspended until further notice." "Suspended?" Nathaniel's jaw tightened, his playful arrogance finally slipping away. "Are you out of your mind? You're threatening a strike over a missed dinner?" "Not a strike over a dinner, Nathaniel. A ninety-day review of our entire marriage." He froze. "Ninety days?" "That's right," I said, looking him straight in the eyes. "You have exactly ninety days to remember what it's like to be a husband. For the next three months, we live under the same roof, but I am not lifting a finger for you. And when those ninety days are over, I will decide whether this marriage is actually worth saving, or whether we should just sign the divorce papers and go our separate ways." For a second, the room went completely silent. Nathaniel's eyes widened in genuine shock. "Divorce? Have you lost your mind? We are not getting divorced over a scheduling conflict!" "You don't get to decide that for both of us anymore," I whispered. Before he could say another word, I slowly slid my left hand up, slipped my diamond wedding ring off my finger, and placed it right in the center of the dining table. The small band caught the candlelight, shining brightly against the polished wood. Nathaniel stared at the ring as if it were a physical blow. The color drained slightly from his face, and his confident posture completely collapsed. He reached out toward me, his voice dropping into a low, pleading register. "Sophie... stop this. Put your ring back on. You're overreacting." "I've spent three years over-accommodating," I said, stepping past him toward the stairs. "The list of conditions will be taped to the guest bedroom door. You're free to ignore them, of course. But just remember-every time you do, I get one step closer to walking out that door for good." Nathaniel followed me up the grand staircase, trailing behind me as I walked down the hallway. "Sophie, come back to our room. Look, if you're bored, hire an interior designer! Start your company tomorrow! I'll double your monthly spending allowance right now. Just please stop acting crazy." Hearing him try to throw money at the problem made my blood boil. I walked straight into the guest room, turned around, and slammed the heavy wooden door right in his face. I leaned my back against the locked door, closing my eyes as I listened to him standing out in the hallway. For a long moment, everything was quiet. Then my phone buzzed loudly in my hand. I looked down at the screen. A new text message from Nathaniel lit up the dark room: You can be angry, sweetheart, but you're not divorcing me. My fingers hovered over the screen. My heart hammered against my ribs, aching with how much I still loved him, but my mind was clearer than it had ever been. I tapped out my reply and hit send: Then you have ninety days to give me a reason not to, because this time, I am choosing myself.