Chapter 4

Olivia beamed, linking her arm through Ethan's.

"Come, let me give you both a tour! The new kitchen is state-of-the-art."

She chattered on about insurance claims and redesigns, her hand possessively on Ethan's arm.

Ethan listened, his eyes soft with an emotion I hadn't seen him show me in years.

"It's amazing, Liv," he said. "You've done wonders."

"And your office is right around the corner, isn't it?" Olivia said, her voice laced with something proprietary. "So convenient for you to pop over for lunch."

Ethan chuckled. "Maybe I'll just move my office here. Be your silent partner."

"Oh, Ethan, would you?" Her eyes sparkled.

He was willing to dilute his focus, his ambition, just to be near her.

I trailed behind them, a ghost at their private celebration.

My presence was an afterthought, a social necessity.

When we finally sat down to order, Ethan took charge.

"We'll have the seared scallops, the truffle risotto, and the duck confit," he told the waiter.

Then he paused. "And a bottle of the Sancerre Olivia loves."

Olivia clapped her hands. "Ethan, you remembered all my favorites!"

He smiled at her, then casually handed me a menu.

"I don't really know your preferences, Amy. Order whatever you like."

Three years of marriage. He didn't know I hated duck. He didn't know I preferred still water to sparkling, or red wine to white.

The casual indifference was a fresh stab.

My stomach churned. I felt sick. "Just a salad for me, please."

Later, I excused myself to the restroom.

Olivia followed me.

She cornered me by the sinks, her smile predatory.

"He's so thoughtful, isn't he?" she purred, reapplying her lipstick. "Always remembers the little things. My shellfish allergy, that specialist he found for my migraines..."

She paused, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror.

"He worries about me so much. It's sweet. But you know, Amy, sometimes a man needs to focus on the woman he truly cares for. Without... distractions."

The implication was clear. Step aside.

Before I could respond, there was a creaking sound from above, then a deafening crash.

The enormous, ornate chandelier in the main dining room had broken free from its moorings.

Screams erupted.

I turned, saw it falling.

Ethan was closer to it than I was. But he didn't look at me.

He lunged, not towards me, but towards Olivia, who was standing near the restaurant's entrance.

He shoved her out of the way, shielding her body with his own as a shower of crystal and metal rained down.

I was frozen for a second, then tried to duck.

A heavy piece of ornamental brass struck my temple.

Pain exploded in my head. I stumbled, my vision blurring.

Through a haze, I saw Ethan, unharmed, pulling Olivia to her feet, checking her frantically for injuries.

Angry patrons were shouting, demanding accountability for the faulty fixture. Ethan was already positioning himself between them and Olivia, a protective barrier.

He never even glanced in my direction.

Darkness closed in. I crumpled to the floor.

I woke up in a hospital bed. Alone.

My head throbbed. A thick bandage was wrapped around it.

A nurse bustled in. "Oh, you're awake, dear. How are you feeling?"

"Where's... where's my husband?" I mumbled, my mouth dry.

"We tried calling him multiple times, honey. No answer." Her voice was sympathetic.

Of course. He was with Olivia.

I reached into my purse on the bedside table, pulled out my Moleskine.

The Strike List.

*Chandelier incident. Rushed to save Olivia. Ignored my injury. -5 points.*

The nurse saw the journal. "Writing your memoirs?" she asked kindly.

"Something like that," I said. "It's a list. When it reaches one hundred points, I get a divorce."

Her eyes widened slightly. "And where are you now, dear?"

"One hundred and five," I said, my voice flat. "Actually, more. I stopped counting the big ones precisely."

Just then, Ethan appeared in the doorway.

He looked disheveled, his suit rumpled.

"Amy? What happened to you?"