The clock on the mantel reads 11:47 PM when I hear his key in the lock. Twenty years ago today, Derek slipped a ring on my finger and promised me forever. Twenty years of cooking his favorite meals, pressing his shirts, hosting his colleagues, and pretending I didn't notice the lipstick stains or the late-night "business meetings." Twenty years of being the perfect wife his mother trained me to be. I'm sitting in the dark living room of our pristine suburban home, a glass of wine in my hand—my third, but who's counting—wearing the black dress I bought for tonight. The dress he'll never see because he's three hours late for our anniversary dinner. The reservation at Marcello's has long since been given away. The filet mignon I prepared as a backup has gone cold on the dining room table, congealed in its own fat beside the roasted vegetables that took me two hours to perfect. The door opens and Derek stumbles in, loosening his tie. He doesn't turn on the light. Doesn't notice me sitting here in the shadows like a ghost in my own home. "You're awake," he says when he finally spots me, his tone more annoyed than apologetic. "It's our anniversary." My voice comes out steadier than I expected. Twenty years of practice at hiding my emotions will do that. He pauses, and I watch the realization flicker across his face in the dim light from the hallway. "Shit. Catherine, I'm sorry. Thompson needed me to finalize the merger documents, and then the team wanted to celebrate—" "Save it." I take another sip of wine. "I'm sure Thompson's secretary needed a lot of... finalizing." His jaw tightens. "What's that supposed to mean?" "It means I'm not stupid, Derek. I never have been, despite what you and your mother seem to think." He has the audacity to look offended. "My mother has nothing to do with this." I laugh, and it's a bitter sound that surprises even me. "Your mother has everything to do with this. She's had everything to do with us since the beginning." My mind drifts back twenty years, to the girl I used to be. The girl with dreams bigger than the roach-infested apartment I grew up in, bigger than my mother's vodka bottles and rotating boyfriends. I was going to be different. I was going to go to college, get a degree, build a career. I was going to save myself. I had a full scholarship to State. I was careful—so careful. But careful doesn't always matter when you're eighteen and in love and too naive to realize that the boy from the wealthy family sees you as a rebellion, not a future. The pregnancy test showed positive two weeks before freshman orientation. Derek's mother, Patricia Ashford, appeared at my apartment door three days later, her designer heels clicking against the stained linoleum like a death march. I can still see her looking around that cramped space, her nose wrinkling at the smell of mildew and my mother's cigarettes. "How much?" she'd asked, her voice crisp and businesslike. I'd stared at her, confused. "How much what?" "To go away. To handle this situation discreetly." She'd pulled out a checkbook, actually pulled out a checkbook like we were in some kind of movie. I should have taken the money. God, I should have taken it and run. But I was young and stupid and still believed in fairy tales. "I don't want your money. I want Derek." Her laugh had been cold. "Of course you do. Well, if you insist on trapping my son, let me make one thing perfectly clear." She'd stepped closer, and I could smell her expensive perfume mixing with the staleness of my reality. "You will never be good enough for this family. You come from nothing, and that's exactly what you'll bring to this marriage. If Derek is fool enough to go through with this, you will be the perfect wife. You will make him look good. You will never embarrass us. And you will never, ever try to take anything from us. Do you understand?" I'd nodded, too scared and overwhelmed to do anything else. "And Catherine?" She'd paused at the door, looking back at me with those ice-blue eyes that Derek inherited. "If you ever divorce my son, you'll leave with exactly what you came with. Nothing." I lost the baby at twelve weeks. A miscarriage, the doctor said gently, nature's way. But Derek and I were already married by then, already locked into our roles. His mother had already spent six weeks training me—how to dress, how to speak, which fork to use, how to smile without showing too much teeth. How to be someone I wasn't. And Derek? He seemed relieved about the miscarriage, if I'm honest. We never tried again. I think we both knew the baby was the only reason we'd gotten married in the first place. "You're drunk," Derek says now, pulling me back to the present. "Not drunk enough." I stand, setting my wine glass on the coffee table with deliberate care. "But that's about to change." "Catherine, I said I'm sorry about dinner. I'll make it up to you this weekend—" "No." The word comes out sharp and final. "You won't." He blinks at me, confused. Derek's not used to hearing no from me. I'm not used to saying it. "What's gotten into you?" "Twenty years." I move toward him, and he actually takes a step back. Good. "Twenty years of your mother's voice in my head, telling me I'm not good enough. Twenty years of making myself smaller so you could feel bigger. Twenty years of pretending I don't know about your affairs—yes, affairs, plural—because that's what good wives do, right? We look the other way." "You're being dramatic—" "I found the apartment lease, Derek." The color drains from his face. "The one-bedroom in the city. The one you're paying for. I'm assuming it's not for Thompson, unless you've developed some interesting new tastes." His mouth opens and closes like a fish. "It's not what you think." "Really? Because I think you're keeping someone there. I think you've been keeping her there for at least six months, based on the lease agreement I found in your study. I think her name is probably Madison or Brittany or some other twenty-something who laughs at your jokes and makes you feel young again." "Her name is Amber." The words slip out before he can stop them, and I watch him realize his mistake. "And it's not serious. It's just—" "Just what? Just fun? Just a distraction? Just something you deserve because being married to me is such a hardship?"