Chapter 2

Somewhere over the Atlantic, the plane dropped.

I grabbed the armrest. Knuckles white.

The cabin lurched again, harder this time. Around me, passengers sucked in sharp, strangled breaths.

Almost without thinking, I picked up my phone and texted Mason.

Turbulence is bad. I'm scared.

He didn't reply.

The plane bucked again — worse than before. The overhead bins rattled.

My hands were shaking. I sent another message.

Still nothing.

I thought about something Mason said, a long time ago.

"If you're ever scared on a flight, text me. I'll always have my phone on. I'll answer right away."

We hadn't been together long. He was traveling for work, and I was flying home alone. We hit a rough patch over the mountains and I'd gripped the seat until my palms were damp.

When I landed, there were dozens of texts from him. The last one was a voice note. I pressed play and heard his voice, low and close:

"Next time, I'll fly with you."

The plane steadied. I exhaled and picked up my phone.

Maybe instinct. I opened Instagram and went to Whitney's profile.

New story. Nine photos. Caption:

"business trip with the boss but make it fun!! he's actually SO good at Mario Kart!

In the photo, she was grinning, controller raised like a trophy. Beside her, Mason — in profile, head bowed, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth, eyes fixed on the screen.

The timestamp read 3 minutes ago.

The plane dipped. My stomach dropped with it.

Mario Kart. The two words pierced my heart like a needle.

Mason and I had tried to play once, early on. Before we were married. I'd pulled out the Switch and begged him to play with me. He'd looked at the screen like I'd handed him something embarrassing.

"What's the point? It's childish."

I'd tugged at his arm. "Just one round, please."

He'd pulled away, voice flat. "Serena, if it gets out that I'm sitting at home playing video games, how am I supposed to command any respect at work?"

I'd laughed it off. Put the controller down. Never asked again.

And now he was playing Mario Kart with Whitney Cole.

Not childish anymore. Not beneath him.

The plane jolted again. The man in the next seat muttered something under his breath. I sat perfectly still, phone face-down on my lap, eyes closed.

My eyes were hot. But I couldn't cry.

---

The plane touched down at Charles de Gaulle just as Paris was turning grey-blue with early light.

I was dragging my suitcase out of the terminal when my phone rang.

Honey.

I stared at the word for three full seconds before I answered.

"You land okay?"

"Yeah. Just landed."

"Just saw your messages. You alright?"

"Fine."

I kept walking, suitcase wheels loud on the pavement, trying to decide whether to say anything else — when I heard it.

A voice drifted through from his end — soft, almost honeyed, the kind of voice that knew exactly what it was doing even over a phone line.

"Mr. Hale, come help me — I don't know how to do this part—"

Whitney.

His voice shifted away from the phone, muffled but still clear enough.

"Coming."

Then, back to me:

"Go ahead and get settled. Talk later."

He hung up before I could answer.

I lowered the phone and looked at the screen.

Call ended.

Talk later.

About what? That I was scared on the plane and he didn't answer? That I'd been waiting for a text that never came? That I watched him smile at a video game controller the way he used to smile at me?

I didn't want to say any of it anymore.

---

For the next few days, I learned about my husband through Whitney's Instagram.

She and Mason went to the Michelin-starred restaurant I'd marked in the binder.

She and Mason rode the Ferris wheel. Her caption: he's afraid of heights??? too cute!!

Every photo, she was laughing. Every photo, he was there.

I sat in a café and scrolled through them slowly.

When Mason and I first got married, I'd told him about that restaurant. He'd said we might as well eat at home.

I'd mentioned the Ferris wheel once. He said the lines were a waste of time.

---

That night, a new post.

One photo. A hotel room — floor-to-ceiling windows, sheer curtains, a wide bed made up in white.

My finger stopped.

That was the hotel I'd booked. The couples suite. The room I had meant for us.

I zoomed in on the edge of the frame.

On the far side of the bed, just barely in the shot — a hand. And on the wrist, a watch.

The one I gave him for our third anniversary.

I set the phone down. Finished the last of my coffee.

Then I opened my messages and texted my lawyer.

Draft the divorce petition.

Then I opened my email and wrote to HR.

I'm resigning, effective immediately. Please process the paperwork.

When it was done, I sat there thinking about the cover page of the binder I'd thrown away.

Paris with Mason. The Maldives. Everywhere we always said we'd go.

I meant every word of it when I wrote it.

But it's fine.

I can go alone.