Chapter 1

While ironing a shirt, I caught a glimpse of my husband's phone lighting up—his first love had divorced and returned to the country, asking to meet him at the coffee shop where their romance began.

Through five years of marriage, I sacrificed my career to be the perfect wife, only to receive his endless longing for his old flame in return.

When he tentatively asked if I'd join him to welcome her back, I calmly handed him divorce papers instead. Watching his stunned expression, I left with a sneer.

But later, he appeared at my door, haggard and desperate, his eyes red as he begged, "Please—open the door and look at me... I can't live without you! This home can't survive without you!"

*****

I was ironing Edward's shirt for the next day when his phone lit up on the coffee table.

Through the rising steam, those words appeared on the screen like a poisoned dart straight to my chest.

Sophia: [Edward, I'm divorced. Flying back next Wednesday—meet me at our old spot?]

My heart seized. Just stopped completely, then kick-started with a vengeance, blood rushing to my head while my fingers went ice-cold.

I stood there frozen, iron suspended mid-air, for what felt like an eternity.

The sharp hiss of the iron plate finally snapped me back. I'd scorched a patch of expensive silk on the cuff—that acrid smell of burning protein flooding my nostrils.

My hand jerked. The iron nearly crashed onto my foot.

I set it down with shaking hands, staring at the ugly brown mark I'd left on his perfect shirt. Then my eyes drifted back to his phone on the table.

The screen had gone dark.

Sophia Lane—that name had been haunting our five-year marriage like a ghost I couldn't exorcise.

She was the one who got away—Edward's first love, the girl who'd carved herself into his heart when they were young and stupid and convinced they'd found forever.

They'd been that couple. The golden pair everyone on campus envied, burning bright and reckless with the kind of love that never lasts.

Then Sophia left. She called it "pursuing her art" and chasing "better opportunities." What it really meant was following some gallery owner overseas—a man who promised her the world, or at least access to it. She married him and never looked back.

Edward was gutted. It was like watching someone lose half their soul.

That was when he found me. Joanna Rivers.

I was the woman who handed him water when he couldn't pull himself together. The one who made him soup without being asked when his stomach twisted itself into knots.

When his family started pressuring him to settle down, to find stability and stop drifting through life like a ghost, I was the one who quietly nodded and said, "Okay."

I've been the perfect girlfriend. Understanding, thoughtful, never asking for too much. His family loved me. His friends approved. I was exactly what everyone thought he needed.

Five years. Five whole years with him.

I thought that would be enough. Enough time for the memories to fade, for me to carve out my own space in his heart. A real space—not some consolation prize, but something solid.

Something more tangible than a first love living thousands of miles away.

It turned out I was kidding myself.

Sophia was coming back.

She'd gotten divorced. And now she was coming back for Edward.

That "old place" she mentioned—it had to be the coffee shop where they'd first gotten together. Edward had brought it up so many times when he'd been drinking, his voice going soft and distant with memory.

I took a shaky breath. My fingertips felt ice-cold as I unlocked his phone. The password was still my birthday. At least he hadn't changed that.

His messages were clean. Just this one new notification. He hadn't seen it yet.

I clicked on Sophia's Instagram.

Her latest post showed a location tag at airport. The caption read: [Countdown to home. When old friends reunite, could it be a new beginning?] The photo was an artsy side profile shot against an airplane window, sunlight highlighting her still-perfect jawline above the clouds.

Edward had liked it.

My heart dropped like a stone.

Five years of marriage, and I'd been the perfect caretaker. I'd tended to every detail of our life together like it was some precious garden I could make bloom through sheer devotion.

I'd learned which foods settled his stomach, kept his closet stocked with perfectly pressed shirts, and listened to him vent about demanding clients over wine. I'd smiled through endless dinners with his insufferable relatives and their petty family drama.

I'd even turned down that promotion—the one that would've finally put me on the senior track—because he'd said we needed someone to hold things down at home.

I'd thought I was building something. Showing him love through action.

Now I understood. Everything I'd done—all those small, invisible acts of service—he'd just seen them as basic wifely duties.

The kinds of mundane tasks that Sophia, his brilliant first love halfway across the world, would never lower herself to do.

And yet she could unravel him with a single text about coming home. One vague hint of possibility, and his entire carefully constructed life with me meant nothing.

I powered off his phone and set it back exactly where I'd found it. My hands were steady. Weirdly calm.

The burned shirt sleeve lay across the ironing board, that scorch mark like an accusation.

I stared at it for a long moment. Then I picked up the fabric scissors from my sewing kit.

The sound of the blades cutting through expensive silk was crisp. I snipped the cuff clean off, the ruined sleeve falling away.

Just like that, I was cutting away five years of being the understanding wife. The one who made everything easy for him while he dreamed of someone else.

Edward didn't notice the ruined shirt until the next morning.

He held up the sleeveless garment, his jaw going tight. "Joanna, what the hell happened? I have an important meeting today!"

His irritation was sharp, undisguised.

The old me would've immediately apologized. Would've scrambled to find a replacement while mentally beating myself up for not being more careful with the iron.

But today, I just stirred the pot slowly, eyes on the soup, not bothering to look up.

"Oh, I accidentally burned it. There's another one in the closet—left side, third one in. The dark gray shirt. Already ironed." My voice was so flat I could've been commenting on the weather.

Edward clearly hadn't expected that reaction. He paused, studying me with a look I couldn't quite read.

I still didn't look at him. Just ladled soup into a bowl and set it on the table.

His mouth opened like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out.