Chapter 2

Sarah woke up before dawn. She had barely slept, her mind replaying the discovery of the divorce papers, the memory of Mark' s and Emily's faces. But the grief of the night before had cooled into a calm, steely determination. She moved around the quiet house, a stranger in her own home. She made coffee, but for one, not two. She ate a piece of toast standing at the kitchen counter, not sitting at the empty dining table. It was a small rebellion, a quiet reclaiming of her space.

Mark came home long after midnight, stumbling in drunk. The sound of his key in the lock made Sarah' s muscles tense. He flicked on the harsh overhead light in the living room, where she was sketching in a notepad, unable to sleep.

"You're still up?" he slurred, dropping his keys on the entry table with a clatter.

"I couldn't sleep," she said, her voice flat. She didn't look up from her sketch.

He came closer, peering over her shoulder. He smelled of expensive whiskey and a faint, floral perfume that wasn't hers. It was Emily' s. She remembered it from the party.

"What's that?" he asked, trying to sound interested.

"Just a sketch."

He seemed to sense her coldness. He tried to shift tactics, to be the charming husband. He pulled a small, velvet box from his pocket and held it out to her. "I know I messed up the anniversary. I got you something."

Sarah looked at the box. It was a high-end jewelry brand, one she knew he favored for corporate gifts. She took it from him without a word and opened it. Inside was a delicate diamond necklace. It was beautiful, expensive, and utterly meaningless.

She remembered seeing this exact necklace advertised online. It was a free gift that came with the purchase of one of their luxury watches. She knew, because she had considered buying him that very watch for his birthday last year. He hadn't bought her a gift. He had given her a freebie that came with a gift he likely bought for himself, or worse, for Emily. The insult was so profound, it was almost funny.

"It's lovely," she said, her voice devoid of any emotion. She closed the box and set it on the coffee table. She didn't put it on.

Mark looked confused. He had expected tears, or at least a smile of forgiveness. He had expected her to fall back into his arms, grateful for the bauble, ready to forget his neglect. Her placid reaction threw him off.

"Aren't you going to try it on?" he pushed.

"I'm tired, Mark," she said, finally looking at him. Her eyes were clear and steady. "It's just a thing. You always said not to get attached to things."

The words hung in the air between them. It was something he had said to her years ago, when she had been upset about a sentimental painting of hers that had been damaged during a move. He had been dismissive, telling her it was just "paint on a canvas" and that she was being overly emotional. Hearing his own callous words thrown back at him now, in this context, made him flinch.

He saw that his usual tactics weren't working. The grand, empty gesture had failed. So he reverted to his other method of control: domestic demands.

"Well, since you're up, can you iron my blue shirt for tomorrow? I have an early meeting."

It was a test. A way to reassert his dominance, to put her back in her place as the dutiful wife who took care of his needs. For five years, she would have done it without question.

Tonight was different.

"No," she said simply.

He stared at her, his drunken brain struggling to process the word. "What did you say?"

"I said no," Sarah repeated, her voice calm but firm. "The dry cleaner is two blocks away. You can take it there in the morning."

She stood up, closing her sketchbook. "I'm going to bed. Don't wake me when you come up."

Mark stood frozen in the middle of the living room, his mouth slightly open. He watched her walk up the stairs without a backward glance. He was furious, and completely bewildered. This was not the Sarah he knew. The compliant, gentle Sarah would have apologized for being upset. She would have taken the shirt and ironed it perfectly. He expected her to crack, to come back down in a few minutes and apologize. He waited, but the only sound was the faint hum of the refrigerator. He stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him. From the bedroom window, Sarah watched his car speed down the street. She knew exactly where he was going.