Chapter 1

The silence in our penthouse apartment felt heavier than usual on my twenty-eighth birthday.

Edward had left early for "an important client meeting," kissing my forehead with the same mechanical affection he'd give a pet.

I sat alone at our marble dining table, staring at the single cupcake I'd bought myself, wondering when I'd become so pathetic.

The bathroom door was slightly ajar when I heard his voice—soft, tender, everything it hadn't been with me in months.

"Happy birthday, beautiful. I wish I could be there with you."

My blood turned to ice.

Today was my birthday, not Isabella's.

I checked my phone frantically.

No, I wasn't losing my mind. October 15th. My birthday.

I crept closer to the bathroom, my bare feet silent on the cold marble.

Through the crack, I could see Edward's reflection in the mirror, his face illuminated by his phone screen.

The expression I saw there—pure adoration, the kind he'd once reserved for me—made my chest tighten with a pain so sharp I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out.

"I can't wait to see you in the dress," he continued, his voice a whisper I had to strain to hear.

"You're going to look absolutely stunning."

What dress?

The only recent shopping Edward had done was... my heart stopped.

The black garment bag hanging in our closet.

The one he'd told me to ignore, claiming it was a surprise for "later."

I backed away from the bathroom, my hands shaking as the pieces fell into place.

The late nights, the distracted kisses, the way he'd stopped noticing when I changed my hair or wore his favorite perfume.

Edward wasn't planning a surprise for me.

He was planning something beautiful for her.

My phone buzzed with a notification from Instagram.

Isabella's latest post: a mirror selfie in a restaurant bathroom, wearing the exact black dress I'd seen in our closet.

The one Edward had bought.

The one meant to be my surprise.

The caption read: "Dinner with my favorite person ? #birthdaygirl #blessed"

My favorite person.

Those three words shattered something inside me that I hadn't even realized was hanging by a thread.

I scrolled through the comments, my vision blurring with tears I refused to let fall.

Edward had liked the photo.

Edward had commented: "Beautiful as always ?"

I looked at my reflection in the darkened window—a woman who'd been slowly disappearing, invisible in her own home.

My husband was in our bathroom, whispering love songs to another woman while I sat alone on my birthday, eating a convenience store cupcake like some tragic rom-com heroine.

But I wasn't tragic.

I was furious.

I opened Instagram, found Isabella's post, and typed with steady fingers: "Happy birthday! Hope you're enjoying the dress my husband bought you. Keep it—and him. This worthless man is all yours now."

I hit send before I could second-guess myself, then turned off my phone and poured myself a glass of the expensive wine Edward had been saving for a "special occasion."

Apparently, I'd been right.

Tonight was special—it was the night I stopped pretending our marriage was worth saving.

From the bathroom, I heard Edward's voice rise in panic.

"Bella? Bella, what happened? Someone commented on your photo—"

I smiled for the first time in months.

Let the games begin.

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