Chapter 1

My husband made breakfast for his female coworker for three years.

I only found out today. He left his phone on the coffee table, and a notification from his coworker popped up on Snapchat:

"The sunny-side-up egg was a bit burnt today, but I still loved it."

I scrolled up through their chat history. That was when I realized he had been making and packing breakfast for her every single day for the past three years.

He woke up an hour early every single morning just to cook for another woman. Meanwhile, I was rushing out the door eating dry, cheap grocery store bagels.

Because of this, I brought up divorce.

He frowned, looking completely baffled. "Over a stupid breakfast? Aren’t you being incredibly petty?"

I didn't argue. I didn't scream.

Starting the next day, I had lunch every afternoon with Liam, a handsome guy from my department who had been pursuing me for two years.

Before a week had even passed, Ethan rushed into my office lobby, grabbed my arm, and hissed, "What is the meaning of this?"

I shook off his grip.

"It's just lunch. Why are you being so petty?"

He said, "What is the meaning of this?"

I ignored him and kept walking toward the elevator.

He caught up to me, grabbing my arm again. His voice cracked with frustration. "I asked you a question, Chloe! What the hell are you doing?!"

People were walking in and out of the lobby. Quite a few of my coworkers turned around to stare.

I shook off his hand again. My voice was as calm as if I were commenting on the weather.

"It's just lunch, Ethan. Why are you being so petty?"

His face turned incredibly pale. His lips trembled for a few seconds before he managed to squeeze out, "You are coming home with me. Now."

"Why would I go home with you?"

"You’re my wife!"

"Oh, so now you remember I'm your wife?"

I looked at him. Images of our last three years flashed through my mind like a cruel movie reel.

He would wake up at six every morning, quietly wash up, and slip into the kitchen.

He made sandwiches, beautiful sunny-side-up eggs, and aesthetic fruit cups. They were so perfect they looked like they were cut out of a food magazine.

I always thought he was packing those lunchboxes for himself to eat at his desk.

I bought cheap bagels on my way to work every morning. Sometimes, I even felt bad for him, telling him to stop waking up so early because it was too exhausting.

He always smiled and said, "It’s fine, I'm used to it."

Turns out, he was indeed used to it.

Used to cooking for another woman.

"You had lunch with that guy today. What are you trying to prove?" Ethan lowered his voice, his eyes burning with anger.

"You saw it with your own eyes. There’s nothing to explain."

With that, I turned around.

He yelled my name from behind, but I didn't look back.

I stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for my floor. As the doors slid shut, I saw him standing in the lobby, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white.

Leaning against the elevator wall, my heart hammered against my ribs. But I didn't regret a single thing.

Back at my desk, I opened my laptop. My hands were still trembling slightly.

Sophie, who sat across from me, poked her head over. "Hey, Chloe, was that your husband downstairs? Did you guys get into a fight?"

"It’s nothing," I forced a smile.

Sophie was smart enough not to push further.

I was completely distracted for the rest of the afternoon. The text message kept looping in my head.

I remembered last week when he had a bad cold. I offered to make him some warm chicken soup, but he told me not to bother. He said he would just grab something simple himself.

I was so touched at the time. I thought he was just being considerate.

Now I realized he wasn't being considerate. He just didn't want or need my care.

When the clock hit five, I packed my things and walked out.

My phone buzzed in my hand. It was a text from him.

"We need to talk tonight."

I didn't reply. I threw the phone into my bag.

When I got back to our apartment, the living room lights were off.

I changed my shoes and noticed the guest bedroom door was shut, a thin sliver of light escaping from underneath.

He had moved into the guest room.

Perfect.

Saved me the trouble of kicking him out of our bed.

I tossed my bag onto the couch and went to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water.

As I passed the guest bedroom, I paused.

Whenever we used to fight, he would move into the guest room. Every single time, I would be the one to knock on his door, offering him an olive branch.

Once, we had a major argument, and he slept in the guest room for a whole week. I cooked every meal and called him to eat.

He would eat in silence, then immediately retreat back to the guest room and lock the door.

In the end, I had to swallow my pride and apologize before he finally moved back into our bedroom.

As for what that fight was about? It was because I chatted with a male client for a few minutes too long.

He thought I was being "too friendly."

How ironic.

He demanded that I keep my distance from any man, yet he went behind my back and made breakfast for a female coworker for three years.

A knock sounded on the door.

"We need to talk."