The airport terminal smells like burnt coffee and regret. I'm standing in the security line with a one-way ticket to London and five years of memories I need to leave behind. My phone buzzes in my pocket for the third time in two minutes. I don't need to check it to know who it is. Julian. My husband. Well, technically. Though you'd never know it by the way he introduced me to people. "This is Sophie, a... friend from university." Always that careful pause before "friend," like he was scrolling through his mental database for the least incriminating word. The phone buzzes again. I pull it out, ready to power it off completely, but the preview of his message catches my eye: "Sophie, where are you?" I almost laugh. Five years of marriage, and he still doesn't know my schedule. Doesn't know that today is the day I finally stop waiting for him to choose me. The line moves forward. I'm three people away from security now. Three people away from leaving behind the woman who thought love would be enough. It wasn't. My phone rings this time. Julian's photo—one I took of him laughing at some restaurant where we couldn't sit together because someone might see—fills the screen. I decline the call and watch as another text immediately appears: "We need to talk. It's important." Everything was always important to Julian. His career. His reputation. His mother's approval. His ex-girlfriend Victoria's feelings. Everything except me. I met Julian Ashford six years ago at a charity gala. He was the golden boy of Ashford Industries, born into old money and newer expectations. I was a graduate student who'd won an invitation through an essay competition. We talked for three hours straight, tucked away in a corner where the champagne was cheap and the conversation was real. He proposed eight months later in that same corner. Said he'd never met anyone who made him feel so completely himself. We got married in a courthouse with two strangers as witnesses. "Just until the timing is right," he'd promised. "Just until I sort things out with the company. With my mother. With the merger." Always just until. Five years of "just until" and I'm still the wife no one knows exists. My phone vibrates continuously now. Messages flooding in: "Sophie, answer me." "Where are you???" "This isn't funny." I silence it completely and hand my passport to the security officer. She scans it, glances at my face, and waves me through. As I place my bag on the conveyor belt, I think about this morning. About the letter I left on Julian's desk—not our kitchen table, because we don't share a kitchen. We don't share anything publicly. I live in a modest apartment across town while he maintains his penthouse. We meet in secret like I'm his mistress instead of his wife. The letter was simple. Three sentences that took me five years to write: "I'm done waiting to be chosen. The divorce papers are with my lawyer. I hope whoever you marry next gets the wedding I never did." My bag emerges from the X-ray machine. I shoulder it and head toward my gate, feeling lighter with each step. The terminal is crowded with people. Families saying goodbye, business travelers looking bored, couples holding hands without worrying about who might see them. I wonder if Julian ever felt that weight. The constant calculation of who might be watching, who might tell his mother, who might leak it to the press. Probably not. For him, keeping me secret was just practical. For me, it was suffocating. My phone screen lights up despite being silenced. Twelve missed calls now. Twenty-three messages. I find a seat at my gate and make the mistake of reading them: "Sophie, please. Whatever this is about, we can fix it." "I'm sorry about last night. I know I said I'd come over. Something came up with the board." "You're overreacting." That last one makes my chest tight. Overreacting. Like five years of being hidden is just me being dramatic. Like missing every holiday because he had "family obligations" I wasn't invited to was just me being sensitive. Like watching him pose for photographs with Victoria at his side during the company's anniversary gala last month—her hand on his arm, his smile easy and public—was just me being jealous. The gate agent announces pre-boarding. I stand, smoothing down my dress. It's red. Julian hates when I wear red. Says it draws too much attention. Good. A final text comes through: "I'm coming to find you. Don't do anything stupid." I board the plane and don't look back.