Chapter 4

Ava POV

The final act of our tragedy played out at a bistro in Manhattan.

Ethan had insisted we go to lunch. He said it would be good for me to get out of the house, though his tone suggested he was merely checking a box on a list of husbandly duties.

When we arrived, Olivia was already there.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, pressing a hand to her chest in feigning surprise. "Ethan? Ava? What a coincidence!"

She was wearing a striking red dress. She looked vibrant, radiating a terrifying energy. She looked like the main character in a movie where I was merely an extra.

"Join us," Ethan said immediately. He didn't even glance at me for confirmation.

We sat. I watched them. They spoke in a shorthand I couldn't decipher, a secret language built on shared intimacy. They laughed at jokes I didn't understand. I was the third wheel in my own marriage.

The waiter brought soup. It was steaming, piping hot.

"So, Ava," Olivia said, her eyes gleaming with thinly veiled malice. "Ethan tells me you're redecorating the nursery. How... domestic."

She reached across the table for the salt. It was a calculated movement. Her elbow knocked the tureen of soup.

It tipped.

Time seemed to suspend as the vessel fell toward Olivia's lap.

Ethan moved.

He didn't think. It was pure, unadulterated instinct. He lunged across the table to shove the tureen away from her-the woman he loved.

He shoved it directly onto me.

The scalding liquid hit my stomach and thighs like a wave of liquid fire.

I screamed.

The pain was blinding, shattering my reality.

"Olivia! Are you okay?" Ethan shouted, grabbing her hands, his eyes scanning her frantically. "Did it splash you?"

He didn't look at me. Not once.

I stood up, soup dripping from my dress, my skin burning and blistering beneath the wet fabric.

The restaurant went deathly silent.

Ethan finally turned to me. He saw the red, blistering skin. He saw the mess.

"Ava," he said, looking genuinely annoyed. "God, why didn't you move?"

That was it. That was the moment.

I clutched my stomach. I let out a wail that wasn't just about the burn. It was a performance born of agony.

"The baby!" I screamed, my voice cracking. "My stomach! It hurts!"

Chaos erupted. An ambulance was called.

In the hospital, I played my part to perfection. I told the doctors in private the truth-that there was no baby anymore. I showed them the medical records from the other clinic that I had kept hidden in my purse.

I asked them to lie. I asked them to tell him I miscarried due to the trauma of the burn.

The doctor looked at my angry burns, then at Ethan pacing impatiently in the hallway, and then back at me. Understanding passed between us. He nodded.

When he told Ethan, my husband actually looked relieved.

He tried to hide it with a somber frown, but I saw the tension leave his shoulders. I saw the exhale. The complication was gone. He didn't have to wait anymore.

He came to my bedside.

"I'm so sorry, Ava," he said. "But... maybe it's for the best. We weren't ready."

"Yes," I whispered, turning my face away. "We weren't."

"I think we should take some time apart," he said, seizing the opportunity before the anesthesia even wore off. "To heal."

"I agree," I said, my voice cold and steady. "I want a divorce, Ethan."

He didn't fight it. He thought he was winning. He thought he was getting rid of me easily to be with Olivia.

He expedited the filing. He signed everything again, just to be sure.

Three days later, I was at JFK airport.

I had already mailed a large envelope to his office.

Inside were the copies of his diary entries. The photos of his shrine. The medical report showing the date of my abortion-days before the soup incident. And the finalized divorce decree.

I boarded a plane to California.

As the plane took off, I looked down at the shrinking city, watching my old life disappear into the grid.

I left my wedding ring in the trash can at the terminal. It made no sound when it hit the bottom.

I imagined him opening that envelope. I imagined the moment he realized that I hadn't lost the baby because of an accident. I imagined him realizing that I chose to kill his fantasy.

I closed my eyes and slept without dreaming.