Twenty-six years old today, and I'm standing outside the Sapphire Lounge with a smile I practiced in the car. My best friend Mara texted me the room number an hour ago. "Big surprise! Don't be late!" Three exclamation points. She knows I hate surprises, but it's sweet that she tried. I smooth down my dress—the green one Damien bought me last Christmas, still with the tags on until this morning. Two years of marriage, and I've learned to appreciate the small gestures, even if they come from his assistant's careful selections rather than his own hands. The hallway smells like expensive cologne and poor decisions. Bass thrums through the walls. Room 709. This is it. I push open the door. The smile dies on my face. There are women everywhere. No—not women. Girls. Barely dressed, moving like liquid silk around leather couches. The lighting is dim, tinted red and purple, and in the center of it all sits my husband. Damien Ashford. CEO of Ashford Industries. The man who kissed me exactly once at our wedding and hasn't touched me since. He's in his usual crisp white shirt, top button undone, drink in hand. A brunette drapes herself over the arm of his chair, whispering something in his ear. He doesn't push her away. Doesn't even flinch. His friends are scattered around the room—Marcus, James, David—all of them with women in their laps, on their knees, everywhere. This isn't my birthday party. This is a bachelor party. Or worse. "Elena." Damien's voice cuts through the music. He's looking at me now, his expression unchanged. Not guilty. Not surprised. Just... blank. The way he always looks at me. "Wrong room," I manage, my voice smaller than I want it to be. "Actually—" Marcus starts, but Damien raises a hand and Marcus goes quiet. The women keep moving. One of them giggles. The sound scrapes against my chest. "It's not what it looks like," Damien says, but he doesn't stand up. Doesn't move toward me. The brunette's hand is still on his shoulder. "What does it look like?" I ask. He finally moves, shifting forward in his seat. The brunette slides away, pouting. "The guys organized this. I didn't know you'd—" "It's my birthday, Damien." Something flickers across his face. For a second, I think it might be recognition. Regret, even. But then it's gone, buried beneath that impenetrable mask he wears like armor. "I know," he says quietly. "Do you?" The words come out sharper than I intend. "Because I'm standing here in a dress you bought me, looking for my birthday party, and instead I find... this." "Elena, you're overreacting." That's James, drunk and stupid as always. "It's just entertainment. Guys being guys." I look at Damien, waiting for him to say something. To tell James to shut up. To stand up and walk over to me. To do anything that suggests I matter. He takes a sip of his drink. That's when I feel it. The final thread snapping. The one I've been holding onto for two years, telling myself that cold is better than cruel, that distance is survivable, that maybe someday he'll see me as more than the convenient wife his mother approved of. "Enjoy your entertainment," I say, and I turn around. "Elena." His voice follows me into the hallway, but his footsteps don't. I keep walking. My phone buzzes in my purse. Mara: "Where are you?? We're in Room 907! Not 709! Did you get lost?" Room 907. Not 709. I was one floor off. My actual birthday party is happening one floor above me, with my friends and probably a cake and definitely not half-naked strangers crawling over my husband. I should go upstairs. Pretend I didn't see anything. Paste on the smile again and blow out candles and make a wish that won't come true. Instead, I walk to the elevator and press the button for the lobby. Outside, the October air bites through my dress. I left my coat in the car. I left my dignity in Room 709. My phone rings. Damien. I decline it. It rings again immediately. I decline it again. By the third call, I turn it off completely. The valet brings my car around—the sensible sedan I insisted on keeping even after marrying into money. Damien wanted to buy me something flashier. I told him I liked having one thing that was still mine. I drive. No destination in mind. Just away. Away from the Sapphire Lounge, away from the penthouse apartment we share but don't live in together, away from the life I've been pretending is enough. I end up at the park where Damien proposed. Ridiculous, I know. But my body brought me here on autopilot, muscle memory from all the times I've come here alone, trying to remember if I ever saw love in his eyes or if I just imagined it because I wanted it so badly. It was raining that day. He had an umbrella. He got down on one knee in the wet grass and said, "This makes sense for both of us. We work well together. We want the same things." Not "I love you." Not "I can't live without you." Just... sense. Logic. A business merger wrapped in a diamond ring. I said yes because I thought I could make him love me. Because his rare smiles felt like sunlight. Because when he looked at me during our engagement, sometimes—just sometimes—I saw something warm beneath the ice. I was so stupid. My phone is still off. I turn it back on and immediately regret it. Fifteen missed calls. Eight voicemails. Twenty-three texts. Only one is from Mara, asking where I am. The rest are all Damien. I don't read them. Instead, I open a new message to him and type: "I want a divorce." My finger hovers over the send button. Two years. Two years of sleeping in separate rooms. Two years of polite conversations over breakfast when he's home. Two years of being introduced as "my wife" in a tone that suggests "my assistant" or "my accountant." Two years of loving someone who looks at me like I'm furniture. I press send. Then I turn off my phone again and sit in my car in the dark, watching rain start to fall on the park where I made the biggest mistake of my life.