Chapter 4

As her face drew near, my eyes caught it. A small, reddish mark, just below her ear, partially hidden by her hair. A love bite. It wasn't from me.

The sight of it was like a bucket of ice water. All the remaining warmth, all the lingering doubt, vanished. There was only a cold, hard certainty.

I remembered all the times she' d come home late, smelling of the city, of fancy restaurants I hadn' t been to, of champagne I hadn' t tasted. I' d always accepted her excuses. Late meetings. Investor dinners. Networking events. I was the trusting fool who stayed home, writing the code that paid for it all.

For the first time in our three years of marriage, I pushed her away.

Not violently. Just a firm, undeniable pressure on her shoulders. I created a space between us that felt as wide as an ocean.

"No," I said. The word was quiet, but it was absolute.

Her eyes widened, filled with genuine shock. I had never, ever refused her.

"I' m sleeping on the couch," I said, my voice flat. I turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving her standing there, speechless.

I grabbed a blanket and a pillow from the linen closet and lay down on the sofa. I didn' t turn off the lights. I just stared at the ceiling.

Minutes later, I heard her go into the master bathroom. The door closed, and then I heard her voice, a furious, muffled whisper. She was on the phone.

"What the hell did you do, Liam?" I heard her hiss. "He knows. I don' t know how, but he knows... He wants a divorce... No, you idiot, don' t come here! Just... fix it! I don' t care how!"

The call ended. The house fell silent again.

A while later, the living room light dimmed. She was standing by the switch, a silhouette in the dim light from the hallway. She didn' t say anything. She just stood there, watching me. I closed my eyes, pretending to be asleep. I felt her presence linger for what felt like an hour before she finally retreated to the bedroom.

My phone buzzed on the coffee table. I ignored it. It buzzed again. And again.

With a heavy sigh, I picked it up. A series of messages from an unknown number.

I opened the first one.

It was a photo. Chloe, laughing, her head thrown back. She was in a hotel room, wearing nothing but one of my old dress shirts. Liam' s arm was wrapped around her, his face a smug mask of possession. He was the one holding the phone.

My thumb swiped to the next photo. And the next. Each one more explicit, more damning than the last. They were a catalog of my wife' s secret life. A life I had funded but was never invited to.

There was no doubt who sent them. Liam. This was his "fix." A scorched-earth campaign to burn every bridge I had back to my wife.

A soft sound came from the bedroom. A murmur.

I stood up and walked to the doorway. Chloe was tossing in her sleep, the blankets tangled around her.

"Ethan... don' t go," she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. "I' m sorry... please don' t leave me..."

The words were a bitter irony. In her sleep, she begged me to stay. Awake, she had pushed me away with every choice she made.

I looked at her, the woman I had loved more than my own life, and I felt nothing but a vast, empty coldness. The love had been burned out of me, leaving only ash.

I turned and walked back to the kitchen. The sun was just starting to rise. I opened the fridge, took out the eggs and bacon. With methodical, practiced movements, I began to make breakfast. Two plates. Just like I did every morning.

It was the last time.