Chapter 1

Ethan Shaw and I were college sweethearts, and after seven years of marriage, everyone called us the perfect pair.

My name was Chloe Sanders. Once the most promising young designer at the design firm, I gave up my career for Ethan and our family, becoming a full-time homemaker. My world slowly shrank to the kitchen, our son, and my husband

I'd believed our love could outlast the years, survive the daily grind, and keep every promise we'd made.

But I'd forgotten: people change. Love fades.

I'd poured my heart and soul into seven years of marriage, only to get coldness, infidelity, late nights away, and constant criticism from my mother-in-law in return.

I clung to a broken marriage and my young son in that quiet house, crying myself hoarse night after night, the pain threatening to suffocate me.

Then came the final straw. I finally understood: some love turns cold in an instant. Some marriages fall apart in seven years.

The marriage was broken, the couple gone. All that love had burned to ash, and nothing could ever put us back together again.

*****

Ethan and I met in college. I studied architecture, and he majored in computer engineering. We connected at a club event and fell for each other at first sight.

Ethan came from a humble background, but he was driven and hardworking. He was handsome, gentle, and always put me first.

My family was well-off, with my parents both being university professors. They never judged him for his roots, seeing him as steady, dependable, and worthy of my trust.

For four years, we were the campus's most envied couple. When I stayed up late designing, he'd stay by my side, bringing drinks and snacks. He'd buy me painkillers when I had cramps.

When my design won an award, he lit up even more than I did, spinning me around and promising to make me the happiest woman alive one day.

I loved him fiercely, buying him clothes, helping with his graduation project, and covering his living costs.

When he felt lost, I'd tell him firmly, "Ethan, I believe in you. You'll make something of yourself."

When we graduated, Ethan had no car, house, or savings, only his drive and love for me.

I ignored my parents' mild objections and married him, with no grand wedding or ring, just a certificate and his promise.

Ethan vowed earnestly, "Chloe, I swear I'll never let you down. I'll give everything to make sure you and our kids have the best life possible."

I believed him, heart full of hope and joy.

Early marriage days were simple but warm. Cramped rental apartment, tiny bed, plain meals. Joy still filled every corner. Ethan built his business from dawn to dusk; design firm hours covered the bills. Every effort went to building our small home.

Year two of marriage brought harsh morning sickness. Work was no longer possible. Ethan hated seeing me worn thin. "Chloe, stay home. I've got you and the baby."

Looking into his tired yet determined eyes, I handed in my resignation without hesitation. I gave up my beloved design career and a guaranteed promotion to stay home as a full-time homemaker and prepare for the baby.

After Andy's birth, home and baby became everything. Round-the-clock care, no small detail missed. A once-spoiled girl turned to a mom who could handle anything.

Diapers, feedings, bedtime, and chores. No small task was overlooked. Every responsibility fell to me, so Ethan could focus on his career. He faced no distractions, no worries at home.

Ethan's business gradually took off, growing from a tiny studio into a promising tech company. We moved into a spacious house, bought a car, and our lives kept getting better.

He'd surprise me with gifts often: designer bags, jewelry, makeup. "Chloe, you've worked so hard," he'd say. "You deserve this."

Happiness wrapped around me. Every sacrifice felt worth it. Our love would stay as bright and true as it had always been.

Back then, I never thought this deep love would turn to agony, or this marriage would trap me in a cage.

When Andy turned five, our marriage hit its seventh year.

They say every marriage hits the seven-year itch. I never believed it. Ethan and I were too close for anything to come between us. But slowly, cracks began to show.

Ethan's company grew fast. Nights out multiplied, and homecomings grew later and later.

Back then, no matter how swamped Ethan was, he always came home for dinner on time, took walks with Andy and me, and chatted with me at bedtime about funny stories from work.

Then came late nights, and all-nighters. Calls hit busy lines, or ended with a sharp "Business dinner" and a click, impatience thick in his tone.

I made a full spread of his favorite dishes, waiting from dusk till midnight. I reheated them over and over as they went cold, but he never walked through the door.

Curled up on the couch with Andy in my arms, I stared at the quiet living room and our wedding photo on the wall. For the first time, a sharp, cold bitterness pricked my chest.

I tried to talk myself down. He was working hard for us, for the family. I should cut him some slack, not spiral into overthinking.

But my understanding only made Ethan colder, more distant.

Our anniversary slipped his mind, along with my birthday. No more gifts, no more small talk. Not even a single word.

When I tried to share Andy's silly stories or chat about household things, he'd stare at his phone or mumble a flat "yeah." No warmth lingered in his eyes.

I wanted to sit down and talk, ask if he was feeling overwhelmed lately. But he frowned and cut me off. "Chloe, can you stop nagging? I'm swamped every day. I don't have time for all these petty things."

Petty things.

All the chores I'd tended to, all the little moments I'd wanted to share. They were nothing but petty stuff to him.

A thousand tiny pricks stabbed through my chest, throbbing sharp and constant.

Ethan started caring more about his appearance. Each morning, he'd carefully pick an outfit and spritz on cologne before leaving.

He set a new phone password, never letting me touch it, and guarded the device like a secret, keeping it with him at all times.

A quiet unease hummed in the back of my mind, but I forced myself to push it down. It was just work keeping him busy, I told myself. He'd never throw away what we had.

When Ethan's mom moved in, life only grew harder.

She'd long thought I'd married above my station, that I was nothing more than a full-time homemaker living off her successful son.

My cooking was never good enough: too salty, too bland, never right. Even a spotless house earned complaints. A small slip with Andy and she'd snap, calling me unfit to be a mother.

I turned to Ethan, hoping he'd stand up for me. He just frowned. "Chloe, she's getting old," he said. "Can't you just let her have her way? Stop being so immature, always upsetting her."

He never asked how much I hurt, never acknowledged the long, tiring days I pulled. All he ever did was tell me to put up with it, to keep compromising.

In this house, I felt like a stranger. I gave everything I had, yet no understanding or respect came my way.

Late at night, after Andy fell asleep, I sat alone on the balcony, staring at the city's twinkling lights. My tears fell without a sound.

Once, our love ran deep. Now only coldness settled between us. His gentle care turned to impatience, and he brushed me off.

Seven years of marriage, and the warmth faded, and our love grew faint. All that remained was endless loneliness and hurt.