Chapter 1

I stared at my phone, the blue light illuminating my face in the darkness of our bedroom. Damian's gentle snores filled the room as I scrolled through his messages for the third time tonight. Sleep had become my enemy lately, replaced by this new ritual of doubt and surveillance. I hated what I'd become—this suspicious, anxious version of myself who checked her husband's phone while he slept.

My thumb froze mid-scroll. There it was again. That name. Sage Harper.

The intern. The twenty-four-year-old who'd started at Damian's company three months ago. The woman he'd been giving rides to work because her car was 'in the shop.' For twelve weeks straight.

I tapped on their conversation thread, my stomach clenching as new messages appeared that hadn't been there yesterday. Photos. My breath caught in my throat as I opened the first one.

Sage Harper, with her perfect blonde waves and crimson lips, sitting in the driver's seat of my BMW. My car. The one I'd saved for three years to buy. Her manicured fingers caressed the steering wheel as she pouted at the camera.

'Loving the feel of luxury,' the caption read. 'Thanks for letting me try it out, D.'

I swiped to the next photo. Sage reclined in the passenger seat, her blouse unbuttoned one button too many, her legs crossed to reveal a dangerous amount of thigh. 'Room for two in here... or maybe more?'

My hands trembled so violently I nearly dropped the phone. The shower was still running in our en-suite bathroom. Damian would be out soon. With shaking fingers, I took screenshots of everything, sending them to my own phone before carefully returning to his home screen.

I slipped his phone back onto the nightstand and retreated to my side of the bed, clutching my own device to my chest like a shield. The bathroom door opened, releasing a cloud of steam as Damian emerged, a towel wrapped around his waist.

'You're still up?' he asked, raising an eyebrow as he moved to his dresser.

I sat up, gathering my courage. 'I need to talk to you about something.'

He pulled on a pair of boxers, his back to me. 'Can it wait until morning? I'm beat.'

'No,' I said, my voice stronger than I expected. 'It can't.'

I turned my phone toward him, displaying the first screenshot. 'Care to explain why your intern is taking provocative photos in my car?'

Damian's face transformed before my eyes. The warm, familiar features of my husband of five years hardened into something cold and defensive. He didn't even look at the screen properly.

'Jesus, Celeste. Are you spying on me now?' He ran a hand through his damp hair. 'She was just being friendly about the car. You're overreacting.'

'Friendly?' I zoomed in on her caption. 'This is friendly to you?'

'She's young. That's just how people her age talk.' He turned away, dismissing me as he pulled on a t-shirt.

'You let her into my car without asking me.' My voice was barely a whisper now.

'Our car,' he corrected sharply. 'And it's not a big deal. Why are you making this into something it's not?'

I stared at him, this stranger wearing my husband's face. Three years ago, this man had given me his blood when I hemorrhaged after Mila's birth. He had sat by my hospital bed for three days straight, holding our newborn daughter in one arm and my hand in the other.

Now, he couldn't even look me in the eye.

Something broke inside me then—a final thread of hope I hadn't even realized I was clinging to. I got out of bed, walked to my closet, and pulled out my suitcase.

'What are you doing?' Damian asked, irritation edging his voice.

Instead of answering, I picked up my phone and opened our family group chat—the one with his parents, my parents, our siblings. My thumbs moved with decisive clarity as I typed: 'I'm filing for divorce from Damian. Please don't try to change my mind.' I tagged him directly, then hit send.

The notification ping on his phone was immediate. He grabbed it, his face paling as he read the message.

Within seconds, my phone was ringing. Damian's name flashed on the screen. I looked up to find him glaring at me from across the room, his phone pressed to his ear.

I answered.

'WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?' he roared, his voice coming at me in stereo—both through the phone and across our bedroom. 'Airing our dirty laundry to my family? Are you insane?'

I ended the call and set my phone down. 'I think that answers my question,' I said quietly, turning back to my packing.