Chapter 3 MY WIFE IS SERIOUSLY TRYING TO FIRE ME

I woke up the next morning feeling an unusual chill on the right side of our massive king-sized bed. I reached out blindly, expecting to pull Sophie into my arms the way I had done every morning for the past three years, but my hand met only empty, cold sheets. I blinked open my eyes, staring at the ceiling of our penthouse bedroom. Then it hit me. The anniversary dinner disaster, the removed wedding ring left shining on the dining table, and her absurd declaration of a ninety-day strike. "Unbelievable," I muttered to myself, rubbing my face. Letting out a heavy sigh, I sat up and shook my head. I am the CEO of Blackwood Holdings. I manage billion-dollar hotel acquisitions, negotiate with stubborn board members, and make high-stakes decisions every single day. Yet, apparently, my own wife had just placed me on a ninety-day probation period like an underperforming intern. How was that even possible? I got out of bed, still convinced that this whole thing was just a dramatic reaction to a missed anniversary dinner. Sophie would cool off by lunch, I told myself. She loved me. Women like that didn't just walk away from a life of luxury because of a few delayed meetings. However, my theory started crumbling the moment I walked into my walk-in closet. I reached out for the navy suit I usually wore on Tuesdays, only to find a completely disorganized row of hangers. Sophie wasn't there to lay out my clothes, and worse, she hadn't set out the specific platinum cufflinks she always placed beside my watch. I spent five irritating minutes searching through drawers before giving up and dialing Oliver. "Mr. Blackwood?" Oliver answered on the second ring, sounding entirely too awake for seven in the morning. "Oliver," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Quick question. Do my important meetings today require a navy suit or a charcoal one? And more importantly, do you happen to know where my cufflinks are hiding?" There was a long, deeply uncomfortable pause on the other end. "Sir? Are you asking me to style your wardrobe?" "Never mind," I snapped, hanging up before he could laugh. I grabbed a charcoal suit at random, feeling thoroughly annoyed that my morning routine had been disrupted by a domestic rebellion. Things went from bad to worse when I walked downstairs expecting the smell of fresh coffee and a hot breakfast. Instead, I found Sophie sitting calmly at the kitchen island, wearing a comfortable oversized sweater, eating a bowl of cereal, and scrolling through her tablet like she hadn't just upended my entire world last night. I stopped in my tracks, crossing my arms. "Good morning. Where is my breakfast?" Sophie didn't even look up from her screen right away. She took a slow bite of her cereal, swallowed, and finally glanced at me with an infuriatingly innocent smile. "Good morning, Nathaniel. You'll find the kitchen is fully stocked. Help yourself." I stared at her. "Sophie, be reasonable. I have a board meeting in an hour. Who is supposed to prepare my eggs?" "You are, or whoever you choose to hire," she replied smoothly. "Remember? The strike officially started last night. I am no longer your personal chef, your valet, or your alarm clock." I let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. "This is ridiculous. It's been one day. Are you seriously going to make me starve because I missed dinner?" Instead of answering, Sophie simply pointed a finger toward the side of the refrigerator. I turned my head and saw a large, brand-new calendar stuck to the fridge with a magnet. On it, she had drawn a bold red circle around a date ninety days from now, and right underneath it, she had written: Husband's Performance: Unsatisfactory. Improvement Urgently Required. My jaw tightened. "Did you seriously grade me? On a kitchen calendar?" "Think of it as helpful feedback," she said, taking another bite. Determined to prove I didn't need her help, I marched over to the espresso machine. I pressed a button, but because I never actually used the machine myself, I forgot to place a cup underneath. Hot, dark coffee sprayed everywhere across the spotless counter and straight onto my expensive white shirt. I cursed under my breath, grabbing a paper towel. Behind me, I heard a soft, melodic laugh. I turned around to see Sophie trying very hard to hide a smile behind her hand. Even covered in coffee stains, hearing that genuine, bright laugh made something tighten in my chest. I hadn't heard her laugh like that in months. "Very funny," I muttered, unbuttoning the ruined shirt. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" "I'm just observing," she said innocently. Before I left for the office, I walked over to kiss her goodbye out of pure habit. But before my lips could reach her cheek, Sophie calmly raised two fingers and placed them firmly against my lips. "Ah-ah," she murmured, looking up into my eyes. "Remember the rules, Nathaniel. Kissing privileges are suspended." I froze, staring at her in sheer disbelief. "You're suspending kissing? That's a violation of basic marital rights!" "It's a consequence of poor management," she replied, not backing down an inch. "Have a good day at the office, honey." I left the penthouse feeling more rattled than I cared to admit. At Blackwood Holdings, my morning meeting went smoothly, but my mind was entirely elsewhere. Normally, my phone would buzz three or four times by noon with a funny text from Sophie, a reminder about lunch, or a message asking when I planned to be home. Today, my screen remained completely silent. During a brief break, I caught Oliver eyeing me strangely across the conference table. "Is there something on my face, Oliver?" I asked sharply. "No, sir. It's just... well, you've checked your phone seven times in the last ten minutes. Is everything alright with Mrs. Blackwood?" I narrowed my eyes. "Why would you ask that?" "Well..." Oliver hesitated, shuffling his papers. "When a husband starts looking like a man who has lost a war against his own kitchen appliances, people tend to wonder. Sir, if I may speak freely... Sophie has been under a lot of stress lately. I know you've been busy with the hotel expansions, but she has quietly absorbed a tremendous amount of pressure on your behalf." "She has a wonderful life," I said immediately, though my voice lacked its usual confidence. "She has everything she wants." "She wants you, Mr. Blackwood," Oliver said quietly. "Not the gifts. Not the penthouse. Just you." His words hit me harder than I wanted to admit. After Oliver left the office, I walked back to my desk and noticed a small gift bag sitting neatly beside my laptop. I picked it up and pulled out a sleek, elegant watch box. Inside was a watch I had been looking at months ago-one I had casually mentioned liking during a rare weekend together before work consumed my life. Tucked beneath the watch was a small note in Sophie's handwriting: Even the busiest man in the world should make time for the people he loves. Oliver, standing near the door, offered a soft explanation. "She bought that for you weeks ago, sir. She wanted to surprise you with a private dinner. But you had to fly to Chicago for that emergency acquisition meeting, and... well, she ended up canceling the reservation." I stared at the note, a sudden, heavy knot forming in my stomach. I remembered that day. She had asked me to come home early, and I had dismissed it, telling her business couldn't wait. I had never even asked why that specific evening mattered. Wanting to check something, I unlocked my tablet and opened the shared digital calendar that Sophie and I had synced since the day we got married. I began scrolling backward through past months, looking at our schedules, trying to understand where things had started breaking down. Then my finger froze on an entry dated three weeks before our anniversary. It wasn't a dinner party. It wasn't a family obligation. It was a single, clean calendar invite: Consultation-Independent Family Law Practice. I stared at the screen, the breath suddenly leaving my lungs. A family lawyer. Sophie had scheduled a meeting with a family lawyer weeks before our anniversary. My heart hammered against my ribs. She wasn't just mad about a missed dinner. She hadn't just thrown together a ninety-day strike on a whim. She had been thinking about leaving me for a long, long time. Without pausing to think, I snatched up my phone, pulled up her contact, and hit the call button. It rang twice before going straight to voicemail. A second later, a text message popped up on my screen: In a meeting. Is something important wrong? I looked at the lawyer's appointment glowing on my screen, my hands trembling slightly with a cold wave of panic I had never felt in my entire life. I tapped out my reply: Sophie, how long have you been thinking about leaving me?