Chapter 1

I was seven years old when my father brought home a woman with golden hair and carefully painted makeup. She handed me a box of sliced mangoes.

That evening, my mother sat silently at the dining table, watching me chew the fruit with childish delight. Not long after, she signed her name on the divorce papers, walked calmly to the balcony of our Manhattan apartment, and jumped.

From that day on, mangoes became my lifelong nightmare.

So, after our wedding vows, I looked Julian straight in the eye and told him with all the seriousness in the world: "Julian, if the day ever comes that you want to leave me, don't bother with a lawyer. Just send me a mango."

That afternoon in Central Park, Julian, in his custom-tailored suit, pulled me into a tight embrace. He swore that from now on, mangoes were taboo for him too.

On Christmas Eve of our fifth year of marriage, his high school friend—the ever-fragile, doe-eyed Chloe—the type of girl who always looked like she needed saving, left a mango on his desk, tied with a crimson ribbon.

Julian exploded that evening. He announced, loudly and furiously, that he was cutting ties with Chloe. Right there in the office, he fired her.

At that moment, I thought I had married love itself.

Six months later, after spending over a month in Europe negotiating a $200 million acquisition deal, I returned victorious, contracts in hand.

At the celebratory party in Manhattan, Julian handed me a drink—golden, smooth, sweet.

I drank half of it. The taste was oddly familiar.

Then that same woman—Chloe, the one who wasn't supposed to exist anymore—appeared behind me in a striking red dress. She leaned in close to my ear and whispered with a chuckle: "Natalie, how's that mango juice taste?"

I froze. I turned slowly toward Julian, barely able to believe what I was seeing.

He stood there, glass in hand, lips twitching like he couldn't hold back a laugh. Like this was all some absurd prank show.

"Come on, Nat," he said. "Chloe was just trying to help. It's not like you ate a whole mango. It's just juice. She's right. It's just mental. You should try to get over it."

He shrugged. "Besides, you were drinking it just fine a second ago. See? You're okay."

The nausea rose up from my stomach, sharp and instant. My hands trembled, but I kept my face cold. I raised the glass and threw the remaining juice straight into Julian's face.

Then I turned and walked away.

Some things are never jokes.

Not mangoes.

And not divorce.