The pen feels heavier than it should in my hand as I stare at the divorce papers spread across our marble kitchen counter. Our kitchen. No—his kitchen. In a few minutes, it will all be his again. I can hear them upstairs. Her laugh carries down the spiral staircase, high-pitched and victorious. It's the same laugh that's haunted me for the past eight months, ever since Victoria Chen walked back into Marcus's life wearing a designer suit and a smile sharp enough to cut through three years of marriage. My hand doesn't shake as I sign my name. Isabella Rose Blackwood. Soon to be just Isabella Rose again. The nausea hits me in waves, though I can't tell anymore if it's from the sounds drifting down from our—his—bedroom, or from the tiny cluster of cells growing inside me. Six weeks along, according to the test I took this morning in a gas station bathroom. Three pink lines that changed everything and nothing at all. I place the signed documents carefully beside the breakfast I'd woken up at five to prepare. Eggs Benedict, just how Marcus likes them. Fresh-squeezed orange juice. Croissants from that French bakery in SoHo that he loves, the one where you have to order three days in advance. Old habits die hard. I don't leave a note. What would I even say? *Thanks for the memories? Sorry I wasn't enough? By the way, you're going to be a father, but you'll never know it?* My phone is already in my hand as I step into the private elevator, my single suitcase beside me. I'd packed it last night while Marcus was at another "late meeting." I know now that there haven't been any real late meetings for months. "Aunt Claire?" My voice cracks when she answers. "Can I come stay with you for a while?" She doesn't ask questions. She never does. "I'll make up the guest room, baby girl. How soon can you be here?" "I'm catching the next train to Portland." The elevator descends from the penthouse, and with each floor that passes, I feel like I'm shedding a skin. The wife who planned charity galas. The woman who smiled for photographers at Marcus's business dinners. The fool who believed that love could survive being slowly starved to death. --- *Three months earlier* "Marcus, this is Victoria Chen. She'll be heading up our new Asia-Pacific expansion." Marcus's voice had been full of pride that day, his hand warm on my lower back as we stood in his corner office overlooking Manhattan. Victoria extended her hand to me, her grip firm and cold. "Mrs. Blackwood. I've heard so much about you." She was beautiful in that intimidating way that made me suddenly aware of every flaw I possessed. Tall where I was average. Sophisticated where I was simply pretty. Her black hair fell in a perfect sheet down her back, and her suit probably cost more than most people's monthly rent. "Please, call me Isabella." I'd smiled, trying to ignore the way Marcus's eyes lingered on her just a fraction too long. "Welcome to Blackwood Industries." "Victoria and I go way back," Marcus said, finally looking at me. "We dated in business school. Before I met you, of course." Of course. "Ancient history," Victoria laughed, but her eyes were on Marcus. "I'm just excited to be working with the best in the business again." I should have seen it then. Should have recognized the hunger in her gaze, the possessive way she touched his arm when she laughed at his jokes. But I was secure in my marriage. Confident in the man who'd promised me forever three years ago on a beach in Santorini. I was an idiot. --- The train station is crowded with the usual morning rush. I buy my ticket with cash—I don't want any digital trail leading back to me—and find a seat in the corner of the waiting area. My phone buzzes. A text from my best friend, Sophie: *Coffee this week? Haven't seen you in forever!* I haven't seen anyone in forever. Somewhere along the way, I'd let my friendships fade, too busy being the perfect wife to maintain my own life. Too busy pretending not to notice the lipstick stains that weren't my shade, the perfume that clung to Marcus's shirts, the way he started showering as soon as he got home. I type back: *Taking a trip. Will call you when I'm back.* Another lie. I'm good at those now. My hand drifts to my still-flat stomach. "It's just us now," I whisper. "But I promise you, that's going to be enough." --- *Six weeks earlier* Our third anniversary. I'd spent the entire day preparing Marcus's favorite meal—osso buco, homemade pasta, tiramisu from scratch. I'd worn the red dress he loved, the one he'd bought me in Paris on our honeymoon. The candles had burned down to stubs by the time I finally picked up my phone. Ten thirty p.m. No messages. No calls. I dialed his number with shaking hands. "Marcus Blackwood's phone." Victoria's voice, slightly breathless. Definitely smug. I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. "Isabella?" She knew exactly who was calling. "Marcus is... indisposed at the moment. We're just finishing up some important negotiations. You know how it is." I could hear him in the background. "Who is it?" His voice was rough, distracted. "Just your wife," Victoria said, and I heard her smile through the phone. "I'll tell him you called." She hung up. I sat at that table until three in the morning, watching the food congeal on the plates, watching my marriage die in real-time. When Marcus finally came home, his tie loose and his hair messed, I was in bed pretending to sleep. He kissed my forehead. He actually kissed my forehead, smelling like her perfume, and whispered, "Sorry, baby. Meetings ran late." That was the night I started planning my exit. --- "Now boarding Train 405 to Portland." I stand, pulling my suitcase behind me. A woman bumps into me, and for a moment, I feel dizzy. The nausea again, or maybe just the weight of everything I'm leaving behind. But I'm not just leaving. I'm also taking something with me. Someone. A secret that Marcus will never know. A piece of him that will be entirely mine. As the train pulls out of the station, Manhattan's skyline shrinks in the window. Somewhere in that forest of steel and glass, Marcus is probably just waking up. He'll find the papers. He'll probably feel relieved. He won't come after me. Why would he? He already has everything he wants. My phone buzzes one more time before I turn it off. A notification from our joint bank account. Marcus has already transferred money. A lot of money. Guilt money, probably. Or maybe just the cost of his freedom. I don't touch it. I don't want anything from him except this one thing he doesn't know he's given me. I close my eyes and let the train rock me, carrying me toward a future I'll have to build from nothing, carrying a secret that will change everything.