Chapter 1

The glow of the phone screen was harsh in the darkness.

Willa stared at the words [Are you busy?], her finger hovering over the "unsend" button for a good ten seconds. She never pressed it—two minutes had already passed since she hit send. Too late now.

She'd meant to text her best friend, Dawn. Somehow, Luke's profile was still stubbornly sitting third in her chat list. Two years without contact, and she'd never deleted it. A slip of the thumb, and the message was gone.

Great.

Willa buried her face in her pillow, wishing she could turn back time. She could picture Luke's face the moment he saw it: that perpetually frozen expression, brows slightly furrowed, looking at the message like it was the dumbest thing he'd ever witnessed.

Her phone buzzed.

She picked it up, heart in her throat.

A new message sat beside Luke's profile, timestamped Just now.

[Send me one more word, and I'm dragging you to the courthouse to remarry tomorrow!]

Willa nearly threw her phone across the room.

Two years ago, when Willa and Luke got married, everyone thought they'd lost their minds.

Willa was an editor at a publishing house whose life motto was "Happiness matters most." Her hobby was growing succulents out on her balcony, though she'd managed to kill three batches already. Luke was a partner at an architecture firm, his life as straight and predictable as a ruler. His idea of fun was staring at blueprints.

They met at a blind date that was a total mix-up. Willa had been dragged along by her best friend to make up the numbers, but she ended up in the wrong room and sat herself right across from Luke. He was checking his watch—not for the time, but to see if it was running precisely. Without even looking up, he said, "You're seven minutes late."

"I'm just here for the free food," Willa admitted honestly.

Luke finally looked up at her. Willa would later say his gaze was like a building inspector sizing up a code violation.

Yet somehow, they started talking. Willa rambled about her dead succulents, and Luke seriously analyzed the potential issues with the sunlight angle. Luke discussed the museum he was currently designing, and Willa fell asleep listening, waking up to find his suit jacket draped over her.

Three months later, they eloped.

Life after marriage... how to put it? It was like trying to plant a cactus and a rose in the same pot.

Willa loved sleeping in until noon on weekends; Luke was up at six sharp for his morning run. Willa could turn the kitchen into a disaster zone just trying to cook; Luke used measuring cups and a timer for his dishes. Willa wore her heart on her sleeve—lunging at him for a hug when happy, sobbing uncontrollably when sad. Luke's highest form of emotional expression was, "The noodles today were cooked adequately."

But somehow, they made it work.

Until that happened.

Willa still remembered it vividly. Luke had come out of his study, holding her publishing house project proposal, which she'd accidentally mixed in with his documents. His face was as calm as a frozen lake.

"You're publishing this book?" he asked.

It was Willa's first major project, an urban love story by a promising new author. She'd pulled three all-nighters on the proposal.

"Yeah, what's wrong?"

Luke set the proposal down on the table. The movement was gentle, but to Willa, the sound echoed like thunder.

"The author is my firm's competitor's wife," he said. "This book contains some sensitive business information."

Willa froze. "What business information? It's just a novel!"

"Certain details are only known to insiders." Luke looked at her. "Do you understand what could happen to my project if this gets published?"

She couldn't recall exactly how the argument escalated. All she remembered was Luke's final words: "Can you, just once, think about the consequences before you act?"

And her own comeback, blurted out without thinking: "Did you even think about the consequences when you married me?"

The air froze.

A week later, they went to the courthouse. Willa's hands trembled violently as she signed. Luke handed her a pen—one of those engineering pens he always carried, solid in grip, cold and rigid in line.

"Use this," he said.

Two years had gone by.

Willa hadn't changed her number. Neither had Luke. But they never contacted each other again. She'd heard his firm was growing, that he'd moved to a new office, that he... everything she knew was second-hand.

She thought she'd finally let go.

Until that accidental message and his instantaneous threat.

Willa stared at the "remarry" warning for a solid five minutes, then burst out laughing. As she laughed, her eyes grew hot.

"Nutcase," Willa muttered at her phone, then shut it off and buried her face under the covers.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I'll change my number.

Work at the publishing house went on as usual.