Chapter 1

The September sun was bright, but in the supermarket produce section, Charlotte Nolan spent five whole seconds debating whether to buy a head of broccoli. It was about 3 dollars.

She remembered it had only been a little over two bucks last week. Now it had gone up by almost fifty cents. What could fifty cents even buy? Half a bunch of scallions? A plastic bag? She quickly ran through this month's bills in her head: about 100 dollars for utilities, a little over 80 dollars for HOA fees, and whatever was left had to last another twenty days.

She put the broccoli back and picked up a cheaper bunch of greens instead.

"Mrs. Nolan, grocery shopping again?"

Mrs. Baker's voice came from behind her, loud enough for half the produce section to hear. Charlotte turned around and gave a small smile. "Yeah."

Mrs. Baker pushed a cart loaded with imported fruit and premium steaks. Her gaze swept over the cheap greens in Charlotte's hand, and the corner of her mouth lifted. Charlotte knew that look too well. It was the kind of smile that came from looking down on someone, dressed up as pity.

"Doesn't your husband work management at some big company? Why are you always buying stuff like that?" Mrs. Baker asked, loud enough for the people nearby to catch every word.

Charlotte tightened her fingers around the plastic bag, but the gentle smile stayed on her face. "He works hard. I don't mind eating light."

Mrs. Baker let out an "oh" and pushed her cart away. Charlotte heard her whisper to the woman beside her, "Look at that sweatshirt she's wearing. It's so faded and she's still got it on..."

Charlotte lowered her eyes and looked at herself.

She had worn this sweatshirt for four years, from the last year before marriage to the third year after it.

Yeah. Who was she even dressing up for?

She pushed her cart to the register and paid by phone. The total came to 15 dollars. Her payment app popped up with a successful transaction notice, and her balance showed 616 dollars.

That was everything she had left to live on this month.

As she walked out of the supermarket, her phone buzzed. It was a transfer notification from Edward Lane.

[This month's living expenses. Spend less.] [Transfer: 700 dollars]

Charlotte stared at the message for a few seconds. No greeting, no explanation, not even one extra word. Every month on this exact day, like clockwork, he sent 700 dollars with the same note every single time: Spend less.

It made her think of who she had been three years ago.

Three years ago, she had been one of the top graduates in fashion design at Northbridge College of Design. She had won gold at a national college design competition, and her mentor had called her a once-in-a-decade talent. Back then, her designs were worn by models on the runway. When the lights hit, camera flashes filled the room.

And then what? Then Edward showed up.

When he was courting her, he said he admired her talent. He said he didn't want her worn down by the daily grind. He said he'd give her a home so she could focus on design. She believed him, turned down her job offer, got married, and became a full-time housewife.

And then sketches became grocery lists, the runway became the produce aisle, and camera flashes turned into the pitying looks of the neighbors.

She stood outside the supermarket as the autumn wind brushed past her, carrying a faint chill. Her phone buzzed again. It wasn't Edward this time. It was her mother.

[Your brother found a car he likes. He's short about 17,000 dollars for the down payment, so figure something out.]

Charlotte didn't reply. She slipped her phone into her pocket and carried the groceries home.

When she got back, she put the groceries in the fridge, then sat down at the dining table and opened her worn-out expense notebook. Every payment was recorded clearly: groceries, utilities, HOA fees, household items. Three years now, and she hadn't bought herself a single piece of clothing over 70 dollars.

She flipped to the first page of the notebook, where a photo was tucked inside.

It was a photo from her college graduation design show. She was wearing a white gown she had designed herself, standing in the middle of the runway, smiling with bright, effortless confidence. Back then, there had been light in her eyes.

Charlotte stared at the photo, her fingers lightly brushing over her own face in the picture.

She tucked the photo back into the notebook, closed it, and got up to cook dinner.

By eight that night, the food had gone cold, and Edward still wasn't home.

She sent him a message: [When are you coming back?]

Half an hour later, he replied: [Working late. Don't wait for me.]

Charlotte looked at the message, then at the two dishes and bowl of soup on the table. She packed the food away, washed the dishes, wiped down the kitchen, and sat on the couch to wait for him.

She waited until eleven. Then twelve. Then one in the morning. He never came home.

She lay on the couch without turning on the lights. The only sound in the living room was the dull hum of the AC unit outside. She stared at the ceiling, one thought circling her mind over and over:

How much longer was she supposed to live like this?

In the dark, she whispered something to herself.

"A woman should never hand her fate over to someone else."

But her voice was so soft she could barely hear it herself.