Chapter 1
For their third anniversary, Isabelle had gone all out preparing a romantic dinner, only to have her husband, Shepard, hand her the divorce agreement.
"Don't take it seriously," he said, his face completely blank. "It's an April Fool's joke."
She signed the agreement with a smile, grabbed her suitcase, and walked out.
Three months later, her jewelry exhibition took the city by storm.
He burst into the hall, his eyes red-rimmed, and stopped cold when he saw the wedding ring on display.
"Isabelle, come back with me," he said.
She turned around and smiled. "Mr. Foster, that was nothing more than an April Fool's joke. Don't take it to heart."
*****
On the last day of March, Isabelle Warren spent four hours working in the kitchen.
She had on her faded apron and carefully plated the steak, arranging broccoli and cherry tomatoes into a flower shape.
At the center of the dining table sat a six-inch cake with cream decorations from a pastry chef from Faeland and the words "Happy Third Anniversary" written in chocolate across the top.
On the TV stand in the living room, the wedding photo in its frame had gathered a thin layer of dust. In the picture, Isabelle was beaming in her white dress while Shepard Foster stood beside her with his usual businesslike expression.
Isabelle wiped her hands, glanced at the clock on the wall, and saw that it was seven o'clock.
She sent Shepard a WhatsApp message: [Come home early tonight. I made your favorite.]
The message disappeared into the void with no reply.
She didn't get upset. After three years of marriage, she'd learned to be patient.
She set out the candles, checked the red wine's temperature one last time, then settled onto the couch and started scrolling through Instagram.
People were posting April Fool's pranks everywhere. She smiled to herself, thinking, 'What a day. Our anniversary and April Fool's rolled into one. Is that fate, or is the universe making fun of me?'
Eight o'clock came and went, then nine, then ten.
The steak got cold, so she reheated it. The cake's cream was starting to sag, and when she tried to fix it with a small spatula, she only made it worse.
At 11:15, she finally heard the key turn in the lock.
Isabelle jumped up, smoothed her hair without thinking, and hurried to the entryway.
Shepard pushed the door open, his suit jacket draped over one arm and his tie hanging loose, bringing in the cool night air and a faint smell of alcohol.
"You're back," Isabelle said, taking his jacket. Her voice carried a careful hope. "I made steak and got a cake. Today is our—"
"I know," he cut her off, his tone as flat as if he were reading a quarterly report.
He walked into the living room and paused when he saw the table, a pause that lasted only a second.
Then he pulled a document from his briefcase and set it down.
"Sign this," he said.
Isabelle froze, her eyes locked on the document. There was no name on it, but her heart had already started racing.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Divorce agreement," Shepard said, dropping onto the couch and loosening his collar. His voice was as casual as if he were talking about the weather. "It's an April Fool's joke. Don't take it seriously."
He didn't even look at her when he said it.
Isabelle stood there, her fingers slowly curling into her palms. She glanced at the document, then at him, and a faint smile crossed her face. "Oh, right. April Fool's Day."
She walked over and picked up the document.
The terms were clear and simple. Under the property division section, it said: [The wife voluntarily waives all shared assets.]
Her eyes stayed on that line for a long time.
It'd been three years.
Three years ago, on April Fool's Day, their parents arranged a blind date for them.
He sat across from her and barely spoke a few times, and as he was leaving, he handed her a business card. "Shepard Foster. If you're okay with it, we'll get married next week."
She didn't have a reason to say no. The Fosters needed the Warrens' resources, and the Warrens needed the Fosters' connections. She was simply the most obedient tool in that deal.
After the wedding, she turned down her acceptance letter from a top university in Pinecrest to learn more about jewelry design. She moved into this two-thousand-square-foot house and started learning how to be the perfect Mrs. Foster.
She mastered every dish he liked and memorized all of his habits. His shirts were always ironed and crisp, his coffee was always black with no sugar, and his suitcase for business trips was always packed the night before.
She believed that if she tried hard enough, one day he would finally notice her.
But over three years of marriage, the only things he ever seemed to remember were contract terms, merger plans, and boardroom votes.
What he always forgot was that she was a human being, too, someone who could get sick, feel sad, and long to be seen.
Last winter, she had a high fever and called him. He said he was in a meeting and told her to call an ambulance herself.
The year before that, on their anniversary, she waited for him all night. He didn't get home until two in the morning and simply said he'd forgotten.
And the year before that... She stopped herself from thinking about the past.
Isabelle's fingers brushed across the divorce agreement, and suddenly, it hit her: these past three years had felt like one endless April Fool's Day. The whole world was in on the joke, and she was the only one who took it seriously.
"Sign now," Shepard said from behind her, his voice carrying a hint of impatience. "It's only paperwork. I'm not actually going to leave you with nothing."
Isabelle turned around and looked at him.
He was slouched on the couch with his eyes closed, rubbing his temples. The light fell across his sharp profile, and he still wore that cold, untouchable expression, as if he were a world away from everyone else.
Three years ago, she thought that made him look cool and mysterious. Now, she knew the truth: he simply didn't care.
"Alright," she said.
Shepard opened his eyes, looking a bit surprised.