Chapter 1

It was our eighth wedding anniversary.

A flower delivery guy wheeled in a cart overflowing with orchids.

Nine hundred and ninety-nine imported orchids, the card said.

The scent filled the ER breakroom, thick and suffocating.

Chloe' s handwriting was on the tag, a perfect, looping script. Ethan' s executive assistant always handled these things.

I was just off a twelve-hour shift, the kind that grinds your bones to dust.

A month ago, I lost our baby.

Ethan was at a "critical work dinner" with Chloe that night. He said he couldn' t leave.

I stared at the orchids, a monument to how little he knew me, or perhaps, how little he cared to know.

I pulled out my phone.

I needed to tell him.

"Ethan's office, Chloe speaking." Her voice was syrupy sweet, practiced.

"Chloe, it's Sarah. I need to speak to Ethan."

"Oh, Sarah! Happy anniversary! He's just tied up for a moment. The orchids are lovely, aren't they? He was so particular about them."

Particular. Right.

"Put him on, Chloe."

A pause, then Ethan' s voice, distracted, impatient. "Sarah? Everything alright? Big day at the hospital?"

"We need to talk, Ethan."

"Can it wait? I'm in the middle of something."

"No," I said, my voice flat. "It can't. I want a divorce."

Silence. Then, a sigh. "Sarah, you're stressed. Those shifts are brutal. We'll talk tonight. Don't make rash decisions."

He didn't get it. He never got it.

He hung up before I could say more.

Ethan came home late to our cold, modern penthouse.

He expected dinner, I think.

I was in the living room, a small duffel bag at my feet.

He held out a velvet box. "Happy anniversary."

Inside, a diamond necklace. Expensive. Impersonal. Probably another of Chloe's selections.

"I meant it, Ethan," I said, not looking at the necklace. "I want a divorce."

He scoffed, a dismissive sound. "Don't be dramatic, Sarah. Did you see the orchids? Nine hundred and ninety-nine. Only the best."

"Do you remember," I asked, my voice quiet, "when we were living in that tiny place in Brooklyn? Before all this?"

He frowned, impatient. "What about it?"

"You brought me a flower once. After I' d worked three doubles in a row at that clinic. It was a single carnation. Pink. Probably cost a dollar."

He looked blank.

"You said it was all you could afford, but you wanted to give me something."

I looked at the mountain of orchids still probably wilting in the ER. "That one carnation meant more than all of this, Ethan. It meant you saw me."

He just stared, like I was speaking a foreign language.

"This," I gestured vaguely around the opulent room, "this is all just... stuff. It' s empty."