Chapter 2

I placed the third puzzle piece next to the others, my fingers lingering on its jagged edge. Three days. Three pieces. Nine hundred and ninety-six to go. The lighthouse was barely taking shape, just a hint of blue sky in the corner. Like my marriage—fragmenting before my eyes, yet somehow I kept hoping the full picture would emerge intact.

"Bella?" William's voice echoed through our Nob Hill penthouse. "Are you ready?"

I smoothed my sundress and took a steadying breath. "Coming!"

William stood in our marble-floored entryway, scrolling through his phone. He looked up, his eyes warming slightly as they traveled over me. "You look beautiful."

"Thank you." I smiled, feeling a flutter of hope. This weekend in Napa had been planned for months—a chance to reconnect, to remember why we'd fallen in love in the first place.

William's phone buzzed. His expression changed as he read the message, a subtle tightening around his eyes that I'd learned to recognize all too well.

"Isabella..." He sighed, already slipping his phone into his pocket. "I'm so sorry."

My stomach dropped. "What is it?"

"Emergency in Seattle. The Meridian deal is falling apart." He ran a hand through his dark hair, messing up its perfect styling in a way that used to make me want to smooth it back into place. "I need to fly up there immediately."

"Can't your team handle it?" The words came out smaller than I intended.

"You know how these things work." His tone shifted, taking on that slightly condescending edge I'd grown to hate. "My presence makes all the difference. I'll make it up to you, I promise."

An hour later, I stood alone in our silent apartment, my weekend bag still packed by the door. I wandered to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of the champagne we were supposed to drink while watching the sunset over the vineyards.

My phone dinged with a notification. Instagram. I shouldn't look. I knew I shouldn't.

I looked.

Genevieve Vance's Stories were always perfectly curated glimpses into San Francisco's elite social scene. Today's featured a sun-dappled private vineyard in St. Helena—barely thirty miles from where William and I were supposed to be staying.

My finger hovered, trembling slightly before tapping to the next slide.

There they were. William and Charlotte, glasses of cabernet raised in a toast, the golden late-afternoon light catching on Charlotte's auburn curls. Her head was thrown back in laughter at something William had said, his eyes fixed on her face with an intensity I hadn't seen directed at me in months.

"Exclusive tasting with tech visionary William Sterling and renowned artist Charlotte Hayes! #PowerCouple #WineTasting #NapaValley"

The timestamp: twenty minutes ago.

Seattle. The lie sliced through me, sharp and clean. I set my phone down with exaggerated care, as though it might explode if handled roughly. Then I picked up my untouched champagne and drained it in one long swallow.

I moved to our bedroom where the puzzle lay waiting. With deliberate calm, I selected the fourth piece and placed it on the tray, connecting it to the others. My vision blurred with unshed tears.

* * *

The doorbell rang three days later, startling me from my trance. I'd been staring at the puzzle—seven pieces now—trying to imagine what the complete lighthouse would look like.

"Delivery for Isabella Sterling!"

I opened the door to find Madison balancing a bag of Thai takeout and a bottle of rosé.

"I come bearing gifts," she announced, striding past me into the apartment. "And the belief that pad thai can cure most existential crises."

"I didn't know I was having an existential crisis," I said, following her to the kitchen.

Madison set down the food and turned to face me, her expression softening. "Bella, when was the last time you left this apartment?"

I shrugged, suddenly aware of my unwashed hair and the same yoga pants I'd been wearing for two days.

Madison unpacked the food in silence, then slid her phone across the counter. "I'm so sorry."

More photos. William and Charlotte at the de Young Museum's private opening. William and Charlotte at a startup launch party. William's hand on the small of Charlotte's back as they entered some exclusive restaurant.

"I thought you should know," Madison said quietly. "Everyone's talking."

"Everyone except my husband, apparently," I whispered.

Madison squeezed my hand. "Call me if you need anything. Anything at all."

I forced a grateful smile, but inside, something hardened. The eighth puzzle piece clicked into place that night.

* * *

Two weeks later, I stood in the corner of a crowded ballroom, a champagne flute clutched in my hand like a shield. The annual Bay Area Tech Innovation Gala was William's moment to shine, and as his wife, I was expected to be the perfect accessory.

Flashbulbs popped as William and Charlotte posed together on the red carpet, her emerald gown strategically revealing, his hand resting possessively on her waist.

"Just colleagues," he'd insisted when I'd confronted him that morning.

"The whole city is talking about you two," I'd said, my voice surprisingly steady.

"You're being irrational," he'd replied, adjusting his bow tie in the mirror. "Charlotte is an important connection for the art foundation. This is business, Isabella. Don't make it personal."

Now, watching them together, their bodies angled toward each other as if pulled by gravity, I knew with absolute certainty that I wasn't the irrational one.

The next morning, I found them featured in TechElite's online magazine: "Power Couple Alert: William Sterling and Charlotte Hayes Electrify Tech Gala."

My fingers shook as I dialed William's number.

"Isabella, I'm heading into a meeting," he answered, his voice clipped.

"Power couple?" I said, the words burning my throat. "That's what they're calling you now."

He sighed heavily. "This jealousy is beneath you. Charlotte and I have a professional relationship that benefits both our careers. You're creating problems where none exist."

As he continued to explain away what was right in front of my eyes, I walked to the puzzle tray and selected the twenty-third piece, fitting it carefully into place.

Nine hundred and seventy-six days to go. I wondered what would be left of me by the time the lighthouse was complete.