Chapter 2
The meal dragged on for forty minutes.
Olivia kept talking: work stuff, someone making a fool of themselves at the office, how good the new bistro was. Gavin would occasionally chime in or put food on her plate.
He put food on Olivia's plate three times.
Naomi kept her head down, picking at the rice in her bowl as she chewed slowly. She didn't have much of an appetite. Her chest felt tight, her heartbeat was all over the place, and that familiar dull ache was creeping back in.
But she didn't say a word.
After dinner, Olivia offered to help with the dishes. Naomi was about to say no, but Gavin was already on his feet. "Come on, I'll see you out."
Olivia paused for a second, then smiled and slipped her arm through his. "Naomi, we're heading out now. Thanks so much for having us tonight."
The door closed behind them.
Naomi stood alone in the empty living room, listening as the sound of the car engine faded into the distance.
The table was a mess: leftovers, used bowls and forks, and that untouched tomato beef stew she'd spent three hours making. She hadn't tasted it.
The cake still sat in the corner, its message now completely smeared by a splash of soup that had seeped into the frosting, leaving a dark, spreading stain.
Naomi slowly sat down and buried her head in her arms.
She didn't cry. She had forgotten how to cry.
The doctors said people with heart conditions shouldn't let their emotions run wild, so Naomi learned to shoved all her sadness down deep and act like nothing ever happened.
Three years married. Three years, a thousand days and nights, had turned her from a girl brimming with anticipation into someone who no longer wept.
She'd learned to cook everything Gavin liked, learned not to text him when he stayed out all night, learned to smile and pretend it didn't bother her when he brought other women home.
She'd picked up all these things, but she never figured out how to make him notice her.
Naomi had no idea how much time had passed before she finally lifted her head and walked into the bedroom.
She pulled a file folder from the deepest part of her closet. Inside was a divorce agreement, drafted months before, but she had never had the courage to use it.
Today, the courage had finally come.
It wasn't hatred, nor even despair. Rather, standing at that dining table, watching Olivia and Gavin's brazen flirting, she had reached a point of pure exhaustion—beyond which even the pretense of love was impossible.
Naomi slipped the divorce papers under his watch on the nightstand, then sat down on the edge of the bed to wait for Gavin.
While she waited, she snapped a picture of the cake.
The message on the cake was blurry in the photo, but she still remembered what it said: "Happy Third Anniversary."
Happy? Naomi let out a small, bitter smile as she locked her phone.
At eleven o'clock that night, Gavin came home.
He smelled faintly of alcohol and perfume—not Naomi's perfume, but the same sweet, overpowering scent that had lingered at the dinner table all night.
Naomi sat on the edge of the bed, watching as he shrugged off his coat and yanked off his tie. He didn't spare her a single glance the whole time.
"Gavin," she called out.
Gavin paused, turned his head, his gaze briefly flicking over her before landing on the nightstand, specifically the folder.
He grabbed it, slid out the papers, and gave them a quick look.
The living room was so quiet that Naomi could hear the tick-tock of the clock, each sound echoing in the silence.
Gavin's face was blank, his eyes lowered to the agreement as he studied it in silence. For a long moment, so long that Naomi thought he wouldn't speak at all, he simply stared at the document.
Then he finally looked up, his gaze indifferent, as if he were staring at something trivial. "Have you really thought this through?"
Naomi nodded.
He gave her an icy, mocking smile that never touched his eyes. "Without me, who's going to foot the bill for your heart disease?"
His words felt like a knife to Naomi's heart, cutting right into her softest spot.
Her fingers curled tight, nails biting into her palm. That sting was nothing compared to the pain inside.
It hit her that, in his eyes, she was nothing more than a burden—someone whose medical bills he was obliged to pay. Three years of marriage, and that was all it amounted to.