Chapter 1
I arrived at Maison Laurent thirty minutes early, smoothing the silk of my burgundy dress as the maître d' led me to our reserved table. The restaurant glowed with soft amber light, crystal glasses catching and scattering it across white tablecloths. Five years ago, Nathan had proposed to me in this very restaurant, dropping to one knee beside a violinist playing Debussy's "Clair de Lune."
"Mrs. Hayes, would you like to order a drink while you wait?" the server asked, his voice gentle with practiced sympathy. I wondered how many lonely wives he served each night in this temple to Los Angeles romance.
"A glass of the Cabernet, please." I placed my phone face-down on the table, refusing to check it again.
By the time the wine arrived, I had already memorized every detail of our corner table—the delicate fold of the napkins, the precise alignment of the silverware, the soft flicker of the candle between us. I took a long sip, letting the wine coat my tongue, and finally allowed myself to acknowledge what I'd known since I'd dressed alone in our bedroom: Nathan wasn't coming.
At the forty-five-minute mark, I ordered the bottle.
"Your husband?" the server asked, his eyes darting to the empty chair across from me.
"Busy," I replied, forcing a smile that felt like glass cutting into my cheeks. "The hazards of being married to the music industry."
By the second glass, my resolve crumbled. I picked up my phone, thumb hovering over Instagram. I shouldn't look. I knew what I would find. Yet I tapped the icon anyway, muscle memory guiding me to Nathan's profile.
There it was, posted twenty minutes ago—Nathan and Scarlett Morgan at the Troubadour, their faces inches apart as they shared a microphone. His hand rested on the small of her back, fingers splayed possessively against the sequins of her dress. The audience's phones created a constellation of lights behind them, capturing the moment that was apparently more important than our anniversary.
I scrolled through the comments, each one a tiny dagger.
*The chemistry between these two is FIRE*
*Power couple alert!*
*Is it just me or are they totally sleeping together?*
I switched to Scarlett's Stories—a series of clips from the same performance. Her throaty laugh as Nathan whispered something in her ear. His fingers brushing hers as they adjusted a sound level. The casual intimacy of two people who had forgotten anyone else existed.
"Would you like to order dinner, Mrs. Hayes?" The server was back, his pity now unmistakable.
"No, thank you. Just the check." I drained my third glass of wine, feeling it burn a path down my throat. "Actually, I'll take the rest of the bottle."
I carried it with me like a trophy of my humiliation, walking out with my head high, leaving behind the anniversary that never was.
* * *
It was after midnight when I heard Nathan's key in the lock. I sat in the darkness of our living room, the empty wine bottle on the coffee table before me, my violin case at my feet. I'd changed out of my silk dress into sweatpants and one of his old t-shirts—a petty act of revenge against the fabric that had witnessed my public abandonment.
"Bella?" He flipped on the light, startling when he saw me. "Jesus, why are you sitting in the dark?"
"Where were you tonight?" My voice sounded distant, even to my own ears.
"At the Troubadour. Scarlett had that showcase, remember? I told you about it." He dropped his keys on the entryway table, casual as if this were any other night. "It went really well. The label execs were impressed."
"You didn't tell me." I stood, unsteady from the wine. "Today is our anniversary."
He paused, his expression shifting from confusion to realization to dismissal in the span of seconds. "Shit, that was tonight? I'm sorry, I've been swamped with Scarlett's new album."
"I waited for two hours at Maison Laurent." Each word felt like glass in my mouth. "While you were with her."
"Don't start this again, Bella. It's work. You know how important this album is for my career." He loosened his tie, irritation flashing across his face. "I said I'm sorry. What more do you want?"
"What do I want?" The question broke something inside me. "I want my husband to remember our anniversary. I want him to care that I sat alone in a restaurant while everyone watched me being stood up. I want him to stop putting his 'star client' before his wife!"
"You're being dramatic. It's just dinner. We can go tomorrow." He stepped toward the bedroom, already dismissing the conversation.
"No, we can't just 'go tomorrow'!" I moved to block his path, my hand gripping the back of the sofa for support. "This isn't about dinner. This is about us. About how you look at her the way you used to look at me. About how I've become nothing but an inconvenience in your life!"
"For God's sake, Isabella!" He threw his hands up, his voice rising. "Not everything is about you! Some of us have actual careers to maintain!"
The words hit like a physical blow. Five years of sacrificed dreams compressed into a single, devastating sentence.
"My career," I whispered, my gaze dropping to my violin case at my feet. "The one I gave up for you."
"Oh, here we go again." He rolled his eyes, stepping around me. "The great sacrifice. Maybe if you'd actually practiced instead of just talking about it—"
Something snapped. I grabbed his arm, forcing him to face me. "I was accepted to Berklee! I had a future!"
"And you chose me instead! That was your choice!" His voice thundered through our home. In a sudden, violent movement, he kicked my violin case, sending it skidding across the hardwood floor.
The sound of wood splintering filled the silence that followed.
We both froze, staring at the case now lying open, my violin—my grandmother's violin—partially dislodged, a crack visible along its polished surface.
In that moment, as I looked at the broken instrument, I saw with perfect clarity what had happened to us. To me. The music that had once filled our lives had been slowly, systematically silenced—note by note, day by day—until nothing remained but the hollow echo of what might have been.