Chapter 3

That evening, I found Shane in his home office, hunched over his latest script with the kind of focus he used to reserve for me. The room smelled of expensive leather and his cologne—not the one from our early days, but the new designer scent that cost more than we used to spend on groceries for a month.

"Shane." My voice came out steadier than I felt.

He didn't look up, just made a note in the margin with his gold pen. "What is it, Amy? I'm trying to memorize this scene."

I pulled out my phone, fingers trembling as I navigated to Celeste's Instagram. The photos were still there—dozens of them. Her manicured fingers posed artfully around champagne glasses, designer handbags, and in three separate posts, my grandmother's watch catching the light like a trophy.

"Look at me." The steel in my voice finally made him glance up. I turned the phone toward him. "Explain this."

Shane's eyes flicked to the screen, and I watched for any sign of guilt, shame, or recognition of what he'd done. Instead, his expression remained maddeningly blank.

"It's just Instagram, Amy." He turned back to his script. "Don't tell me you're stalking my assistant's social media now."

"That's your grandmother's watch, Shane. The watch you gave me at Griffith Observatory. The one that was supposed to represent time never changing how you felt about me."

He set down his pen with an exaggerated sigh, the kind he used when reporters asked particularly stupid questions. "It was sitting in your jewelry box collecting dust. At least Celeste appreciates it."

The casual cruelty of his words hit me like a physical blow. "Appreciates it? Shane, do you remember what you said when you gave it to me? You said—"

"I said a lot of things." He finally looked at me fully, and his eyes were cold, distant. "We were kids, Amy. Young and dramatic and full of pretty words that don't mean anything in the real world."

*"Amy, please,"* nineteen-year-old Shane's voice whispered desperately in my ear. *"Don't let him destroy this memory too. Remember how my hands shook when I gave it to you? How I said I wanted you to have something that had been in my family for generations because you were going to be part of that family forever?"*

I pressed my palm against my temple, fighting the dizzying sensation of hearing two versions of the same man. "It wasn't just pretty words, Shane. It was a promise."

"Promises change." He picked up his script again, dismissing me. "People grow up. Priorities shift. Maybe if you spent less time clinging to the past and more time accepting reality, you'd understand that."

*"This is your second chance,"* the younger voice pleaded. *"Please, Amy. Don't give up on us yet."*

Something inside me cracked, but not in the way Shane intended. Instead of breaking down, I felt a strange clarity settle over me. If I was going to use this second chance, I would do it right. I would remind him—remind us both—of what we used to be.

"Fine," I said quietly. "But I want you home for dinner tomorrow night. Seven o'clock. No phones, no work, no excuses."

Shane looked up, surprised by my calm tone. "Amy, I have—"

"Seven o'clock," I repeated, already turning toward the door. "Don't be late."

I spent the next day in a frenzy of preparation that felt both desperate and sacred. I drove to three different markets to find the exact ingredients from our first anniversary dinner—the meal I'd cooked in our tiny studio apartment when we could barely afford anything beyond pasta and hope.

The dining room transformed under my careful attention. I polished our wedding china until it gleamed, arranged white roses in the crystal vase his mother had given us, and lit dozens of candles throughout the room. The dress I chose was the same midnight blue I'd worn on our first date, though it required alterations now to fit my more mature figure.

When Shane walked through the door at seven-fifteen, his expression shifted from irritation to genuine surprise. For a moment—just a moment—I saw a flicker of the man I'd married in his eyes.

"Amy, this is..." He paused in the doorway, taking in the scene. "You didn't have to go to all this trouble."

"It's not trouble," I said, smoothing my dress nervously. "It's our anniversary dinner. The one from our first apartment, remember?"

Something soft crossed his features as he sat down across from me. "Chicken marsala. You burned it the first time."

"And you ate every bite anyway." I served him, my hands steadier now. "You said it was the best meal you'd ever had."

For the first twenty minutes, it almost worked. Shane complimented the food, asked about my day, even laughed when I reminded him how our ancient oven had nearly caught fire that night. The candlelight softened the harsh lines that success had carved around his eyes, and I could almost pretend we were still those young people who believed love could conquer anything.

Then his phone started buzzing.

The first call, he ignored. The second, he glanced at apologetically. By the third, his attention was completely fractured.

"I'm sorry," he said, standing as the phone rang again. "It's Celeste. There's some emergency with the morning shoot."

I watched him walk into the hallway, his voice immediately dropping to the soft, intimate tone he used to reserve for me. Through the archway, I could see him pacing, one hand running through his hair in the gesture I knew meant he was worried about someone he cared for.

"No, no, don't cry," I heard him murmur. "I'll figure it out. You know I'll always take care of you."

I sat alone at our carefully set table, watching the candles burn lower as my perfectly prepared meal grew cold. The roses began to wilt in the heat from the flames, their petals dropping one by one onto the white tablecloth like tears.

Twenty minutes passed. Then thirty. Shane's voice continued in the hallway, soothing and protective, promising solutions to problems that couldn't wait until morning.

When he finally returned, his face was flushed with concern for another woman.

"Sorry about that," he said, not quite meeting my eyes as he sat back down. "Where were we?"

But we both knew exactly where we were. The second chance was over, dissolved in the acid of his priorities. As I looked at my husband across our anniversary table, I realized that some things truly couldn't be brought back to life, no matter how desperately you tried to resurrect them.