Chapter 1

On our wedding anniversary, Edward Stone posted an update on social media.

"Ten likes, and we get divorced."

Attached was a signed divorce agreement. His signature sprawled across the line for Party A, bold and sweeping, like a decree severing every last tie between us.

I stared at the post for a long time. The screen made my eyes ache, and when I rubbed them, my fingertips came away wet.

No. I wasn't crying.

I was laughing so hard I'd started to tear up.

Ten likes? Edward, was this supposed to be a joke?

I opened the post, found the heart icon, and tapped it without hesitation. The page refreshed, and my profile picture appeared under the likes.

The first one liked.

I took a screenshot, saved it, then opened my conversation with Edward. Our last exchange was from a week ago.

[I won't be home tonight.]

[Okay.]

Two dry little messages. A perfect summary of our dead marriage.

I typed one more.

[Edward, I liked it. See you at the courthouse.]

The message showed as read. Almost immediately, my phone started vibrating nonstop.

I didn't answer. Instead, I silenced it, placed it face down on the table, and walked into the closet.

After three years of marriage, I owned surprisingly little. One suitcase was enough.

I left every piece of jewelry Edward had given me neatly arranged in its case. Those things had never truly belonged to Grace Lane. They belonged to the title of Mrs. Stone.

On my way out, I stopped in front of our wedding portrait.

The woman in the picture was glowing, tucked against her husband and looking toward the future as if it held nothing but happiness.

Edward had been smiling too. Not warmly, exactly, but enough to look like a groom.

Three years was long enough to turn a hopeful bride into a woman who felt nothing when she looked at her own wedding photo.

I turned the frame toward the wall.

At the door, suitcase in hand, I gave the home I'd lived in for three years one last look. It was enormous, immaculate, and expensive, yet there wasn't a single corner of it that had ever felt warm.

The door clicked shut behind me, soft as a sigh, but I didn't look back.

*****

My phone was still vibrating in the cab.

Edward had called seven times and sent 12 messages. I didn't read any of them. I deleted our chat history, but I didn't block him or remove his contact.

I simply decided his endless "okay," "sure," and "not coming home" messages weren't worth the storage space.

The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror. A young woman leaving at night with a suitcase and red-rimmed eyes probably looked like she'd fought with her husband.

He didn't ask questions. He only lowered the music.

I was grateful for the silence.

Outside, the city glowed beneath neon lights. The reflections blurred across the window like watercolor.

When Edward and I first married, we used to drive like this all the time, his hand wrapped around mine while we talked about nothing.

Back then, I thought that was forever.

Forever meant the passenger seat would always be mine. The little charm hanging from his mirror would stay there, and the car would always be filled with the music I loved.

Then his secretary started sitting in my seat. Edward removed the charm because it was "in the way," and my playlists disappeared beneath the symphonies he preferred.

For a long time, I thought I was the problem. Maybe I wasn't considerate enough. Maybe I wasn't gentle enough.

Then one day, I found a photograph in his study.

Edward stood beside a woman with her arm linked through his, smiling brightly, and on the back, someone had written his name in graceful, distinctly feminine handwriting.

I never asked who she was.

I recognized the background.

The picture was taken beneath Aurora Tower in Valoria during Edward's trip the previous year. He told me he was traveling alone, stayed seven days, and called for only three minutes each night, sounding like I was another task on his schedule.

So he hadn't gone alone.

I spent the entire night reviewing a year's worth of itineraries, purchases, and call records. The more I found, the calmer I became.

Late nights I had blamed on work, the faint perfume lingering on his suits, and the way he flipped his phone over whenever it lit up all began to make sense. Piece by piece, those details came together into one unmistakable story of betrayal.

I didn't cry or confront him.

I locked the evidence away and went on being Mrs. Stone. At dinners, I smiled on his arm. Around his parents, I was considerate and sweet. With his friends, I played the gracious wife.

I played the part so well that everyone believed we had the perfect marriage.

Edward believed it most of all. He thought I knew nothing.

The cab stopped outside a hotel. I checked in, showered, and lay down before looking at my phone again.

Seven missed calls had become 23. Twelve messages had become more than 30.

The newest one was a voice message. I hesitated, then pressed play.

Edward's voice came through tight with an urgency I'd never heard from him before. "Grace, where are you? What do you mean you liked it? That post wasn't meant for you. Stop making a scene and talk to me."

"Stop making a scene."

I laughed at the message.

To Edward, everything I did was a scene. When I asked why he hadn't come home all week, I was making a scene. When I asked who the other woman was, I was making a scene.

When I laid proof of his affair in front of him, he still called it a scene. As long as he could dismiss me as unreasonable, he never had to acknowledge what he had done.

I ignored the voice message and opened his social media post instead. It already had 37 likes from friends, business associates, and, incredibly, his own mother, Margaret Stone.

She had commented, [Did you two fight? Edward, don't do anything rash.]

Edward replied beneath it, [Mom, it's fine. We were only joking.]

Only joking? He had signed the divorce agreement himself and posted it for everyone to see. Now that I had taken him at his word, suddenly it was all a joke.

I kept scrolling through the comments, and the more I read, the more ridiculous it all seemed.

Charles Shaw had commented, [Grace is going to be hurt when she sees this. Delete it.]

Ryan Foster wrote, [She's going to kill you.]

Kill him? I barely ever raised my voice.

Edward loved telling people that I was gentle, agreeable, and never lost my temper. There was always a trace of smug satisfaction in his tone, as though having an obedient wife reflected well on him.

He truly believed I was docile, and he truly believed I would never leave.