Chapter 2

The memory hit me like a physical blow as I sat in my darkened living room, wine glass trembling in my hand.

Our wedding day.

Three years ago, when I'd still believed in fairy tales and forever.

I'd been walking down the aisle in my grandmother's restored lace gown, my eyes locked on Edward's face, when the church doors burst open.

Isabella had appeared like some gothic angel in a flowing white dress—not quite a wedding gown, but close enough to send whispers rippling through our guests.

She'd stumbled, claimed to be "so sorry," blamed medication for the mix-up.

Edward had gone pale, rushing to her side while I stood frozen at the altar, my bouquet wilting in my sweaty palms.

The ceremony had continued, but the damage was done.

Even in our wedding photos, Edward's eyes kept drifting toward the back pew where Isabella sat, dabbing her eyes with tissues my bridesmaids had given her.

"She's still fragile," Edward had explained later that night as I sat on the edge of our hotel bed in my honeymoon lingerie, feeling more exposed than beautiful.

"The accident really messed her up. She needs support."

Three years of support.

Three years of "Isabella's having a bad day" and "she just needs someone who understands her trauma" and "you're so lucky to be stable, Sophia. Not everyone is as strong as you."

Edward emerged from the bathroom, his face white as bone.

"Sophia, we need to talk."

I didn't look up from my wine.

"Do we? I think Isabella said everything that needed saying."

"She didn't write that comment. You did."

His voice was carefully controlled, the tone he used during difficult business negotiations.

"Delete it."

"No."

The single word hung between us like a challenge.

Edward's reflection appeared in the window behind mine, and for a moment, we looked like strangers.

"She's not well, Sophia. You know what she's been through."

He sat heavily on the couch beside me, but not close enough to touch.

"The trauma from the car accident, the memory issues, the anxiety attacks. She depends on me."

I laughed, the sound harsh and bitter.

"Memory issues? Is that what we're calling it now?"

I turned to face him, seeing him clearly for the first time in years.

"She remembers your schedule perfectly. Remembers to call exactly when you're with me. Remembers to have emergencies during every important moment in our marriage."

"That's not fair—"

"Fair?"

I stood abruptly, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of my glass.

"You want to talk about fair? Let's talk about how she needs your help exactly three days every week. How those days always happen to be Monday, Wednesday, and Friday—the same schedule you keep claiming is random."

Edward's jaw tightened.

"Her therapy sessions are—"

"At La Bernardin? At the Met? At that cozy little wine bar in SoHo?"

I'd done my homework during those long, lonely evenings.

"That's some very expensive therapy, Edward. Very romantic therapy."

I walked to the kitchen and retrieved my laptop, the wine making me bold.

With a few clicks, I pulled up Edward's Instagram account—the one he thought I didn't know about, the one where he followed exactly one person.

"Look at this."

I turned the screen toward him.

"Three months of photos. Isabella at restaurants, Isabella at art galleries, Isabella laughing at jokes only she could hear. And look—"

I clicked on a photo from last week.

"There's your reflection in the window behind her. Holding her hand."

Edward stared at the screen, his silence more damning than any confession.

"I've been such an idiot," I whispered, closing the laptop with a soft click.

"Believing your lies about helping her heal. Believing that I was the problem, that I wasn't understanding enough, supportive enough, good enough."

"Sophia, please—"

"No."

I moved toward the stairs, each step feeling like walking away from quicksand.

"I'm done. Done with the lies, done with being the villain in my own marriage, done with watching you play hero to a woman who's more manipulative than traumatized."

I paused at the bottom of the staircase, looking back at the man I'd once thought I'd spend my life with.

"You know what the saddest part is? I actually loved you enough to share you. But she'll never love you enough to let you be happy."

As I climbed the stairs to our bedroom—soon to be just his bedroom—I heard him calling Isabella.

"Baby, we have a problem."

Baby.

He'd never called me that.

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