The leather journal sits in my nightstand drawer, hidden beneath silk scarves Nathan bought me during our honeymoon in Paris. He doesn't remember buying them. He barely remembers Paris at all, because Lily Morgan called crying on day three, and he spent the rest of our trip on the phone with her, consolating her through another failed relationship. That was the first entry. Minus five points. I open the journal now, my hands trembling as I flip through three years of carefully documented moments. My handwriting evolves across the pages—starting hopeful and rounded, gradually tightening into sharp, angry slashes. *Year One, Month Two: Nathan missed our first anniversary dinner. Lily's cat died. (-3 points)* *Year One, Month Seven: He used our vacation fund to help Lily with her gallery down payment. (-10 points)* *Year Two, Month Three: He forgot my birthday but remembered Lily's the next day. Sent her roses. White ones. Her favorite. (-5 points)* The system seemed crazy when I started it. Maybe it was. One hundred points representing the marriage I thought we'd have. Each betrayal, each time he chose her over me, I'd subtract. When we reached zero, I'd leave. I told myself I was being rational. Scientific, even. Nathan's a surgeon—he understands data, patterns, evidence-based decisions. This was just my way of knowing when enough was enough. Currently, we're at seven points. Seven points left in a marriage that's been bleeding out since the day Nathan's "childhood best friend" walked back into his life during our engagement party, looking like a Pinterest board come to life with her flowing auburn hair and that ethereal artist aesthetic that makes me feel like a corporate drone in my sensible heels and blazer. "Emma?" Nathan's voice carries from the bathroom. "Have you seen my good watch? The Rolex?" The one Lily admired last month at the hospital charity gala. The one that disappeared from his dresser three days later. "No," I call back, closing the journal and sliding it back into its hiding place. Nathan emerges, still devastatingly handsome in his scrubs. That's the cruelest part—I'm still attracted to him. Still feel that flutter when he walks into a room, even though I know I'm not the woman he wishes he was coming home to. "I have back-to-back surgeries today," he says, checking his phone. His face softens, and I know before he even speaks. "Lily's coming in for that procedure this afternoon. Minor thing, but she's nervous." "What kind of procedure?" I ask, though I already know he'll give me vague details while knowing every intimate detail of Lily's medical history. "Just a small polyp removal. Routine endoscopy, but you know Lily—she gets anxious about medical stuff." He says her name like a prayer. Gentle. Reverent. He's never said my name like that. "I'll make sure I'm the one who handles her pre-op," he continues. "She specifically requested me." Of course she did. "What about your surgeries?" "I'll have Rodriguez cover if there's any overlap. This is important, Emma. Lily doesn't have anyone else." Lily has parents. A sister. A whole social circle of artistic friends who worship her. But Nathan's convinced himself she's this fragile creature who needs him specifically to survive. "Right," I say. "Of course." He kisses my forehead—that distant, brotherly kiss that replaced actual passion sometime during year two—and leaves. I sit on the bed, pulling out my phone. The pregnancy test is still in my purse, taken three days ago in the bathroom at work. Two pink lines that should have filled me with joy. Eight weeks pregnant. We've been trying for a year. Well, I've been trying. Nathan's been "too stressed" more often than not, though he somehow finds energy when Lily needs emotional support at 2 AM. I haven't told him yet. I kept waiting for the right moment, but there's never a right moment when your husband is in love with someone else. My phone buzzes. Dr. Sarah Chen—Nathan's sister and my only real friend in his family. *Lunch today? Need to talk to you about something.* I agree, grateful for the distraction. --- The hospital cafeteria is surprisingly crowded when I arrive. I spot Sarah immediately—she has Nathan's same sharp cheekbones but warmer eyes. "You look tired," she says as I sit down. "Gee, thanks." "I mean it, Emma. Are you okay?" The concern in her voice almost breaks me. I want to tell her everything—the journal, the pregnancy, the slow death of my marriage. Instead, I shrug. "Just work stress. The Peterson merger is killing me." Sarah studies me with those doctor eyes that see too much. "I'm going to tell you something, and you're going to hate it, but I need to say it anyway." My stomach tightens. "Okay." "Nathan requested to personally handle Lily's procedure this afternoon. Moved two surgeries around, including an emergency consultation that just came in." "He told me he'd have Rodriguez cover if needed." "Emma." Sarah reaches across the table, gripping my hand. "It's been three years of this. When are you going to stop setting yourself on fire to keep him warm?" "I'm not—" "You are. Everyone sees it except you. Or maybe you do see it, and you're just too afraid to admit you married the wrong man." The words hang between us, sharp and true. "I'm pregnant," I hear myself say. Sarah's eyes widen. "Oh, Emma." "Eight weeks. I haven't told him yet." "Why not?" Because I'm terrified he'll look at me with obligation instead of joy. Because I'm afraid he'll see our child as another chain keeping him from Lily. Because some part of me knows that a baby won't fix what's broken between us—it'll just create another person to witness our dysfunction. "I don't know," I whisper. Sarah squeezes my hand harder. "You deserve better than this. You deserve someone who chooses you first, every single time. Not seventh. Not after Lily's cat and Lily's gallery and Lily's feelings." "I know." "Do you? Because knowing and doing something about it are two different things." My phone explodes with notifications. Then Sarah's. Then everyone's in the cafeteria. "Mass casualty incident," Sarah says, reading her screen. "Multi-car pileup on the highway. All hands on deck." We run. ---