Chapter 3

After that day, Edward didn't come home. He took Sophie to Winterlake Springs—a perfect place to watch the snow while soaking in the hot springs.

He wasn't even trying to hide it. On his social media, he posted a picture of two hands pressed together, each holding a delicate snowflake in the palm. The caption read: [Sophie, right where you belong.]

It was romantic. Maybe making it public was his way of giving her a sense of security. He even deleted every comment asking if I was the one who'd gone on the trip with him. By then, love had already blinded him completely. He didn't seem to remember that this week was supposed to be our wedding anniversary.

No matter how long we'd been married, he always used to mark the day—dinner together, a gift, and a handwritten card.

This year, I ate alone. When I cleared the dishes afterward, I felt like I was forgetting something, though I couldn't remember what.

It wasn't until the next day, when a package arrived, that it hit me. I'd ordered an anniversary gift weeks in advance.

The seller apologized, saying it had been delayed a day and hoped it hadn't caused any trouble. I opened it—a set of vintage tableware I'd had shipped from abroad.

Edward loved things like that. But there didn't seem to be any point in giving it to him anymore. I put it away in the cabinet, deciding not to use it.

Two days later, Edward finally came home. He looked radiant, full of energy, and actually suggested that I should "get out more, meet new people".

I smiled faintly. "You mean," I asked, "find myself a younger lover like you did?"

He shrugged. "If you can, sure. But show Sophie some respect. She's not the kind of woman you think she is."

I laughed, though there was no humor in it, and said nothing. That night, I told him I wanted to sleep in separate rooms.

He seemed surprised—as if it had never occurred to him that I'd be the one to say it—but he agreed easily. Still, in the middle of the night, he knocked on my door, asking if we had the ingredients for tiramisu.

I was half-asleep and snapped at him, "Are you insane? Who eats tiramisu in the middle of the night?"

He smiled helplessly, "Sophie's craving it. What can I do? We don't have any here, so I'll go buy some."

He threw on his coat, grabbed his keys, and left—not a trace of apology for waking me up.

The bedroom window was slightly open, and the cold wind rushed in, slicing through my chest. Half-asleep, I suddenly remembered a winter years ago when I'd told him I was craving spaghetti late at night.

Back then, we were still renting a tiny apartment, and the kitchen window wouldn't close properly. The cold seeped through the cracks.

Edward had gotten up, cooked the spaghetti, and brought it to bed for me. I still remember how warm it felt—the food, his presence, the tiny, fragile sense of happiness that existed even in our struggles.

I wondered if, when he did the same thing for Sophie now, he ever thought about the love he once had—even just a sliver of it.

I never found out if Sophie got her tiramisu that night. But I did know one thing—Edward was completely, hopelessly in love with her.

The next time I saw Sophie was at a restaurant.

I was having lunch with my old agent, Anthony Macdonald, when she walked in, her arm hooked around Edward's.

She spotted me almost immediately and walked over with a bright smile. "Charlotte! You haven't been to the salon in forever. You still have plenty of credit left on your card. Don't forget to use it, okay?"

Her tone was cheerful and casual. And she was right. I really hadn't been there in a long time.

Before I could respond, Anthony glanced between me and the couple, then blurted out, completely unaware of the tension in the air, "Edward, Charlotte, did you two get divorced?"