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I stared at the half-packed suitcase on our bed, my fingers mechanically smoothing the edges of a sundress I'd bought specifically for Hawaii. The digital clock on the nightstand glowed an accusatory 3:00 AM, its red numbers burning into my retinas as I sat alone in our darkened Manhattan apartment. Eight years of marriage. Eight years of promises. Eight years of slowly disappearing. "Just one more call," I whispered to myself, the sound of my own voice startling in the pre-dawn stillness. My thumb hovered over Jason's contact photo—his confident smile now seeming more smug than charming—before pressing dial. One ring. Two rings. Three. "This is Jason Bennett. I'm unavailable right now. Leave a message." I ended the call without speaking. What was there to say that I hadn't already said in the twelve previous voicemails? The emergency meeting in Chicago must be keeping him terribly busy. So busy he couldn't spare thirty seconds to call his wife on the eve of their anniversary trip. My gaze drifted to