Chapter 1

I thought Ashton Bennett loved me intensely during our five years of marriage.

Until the night Macy Hart, my half-sister, returned to the country. Ashton left me at home and went to the airport to pick her up. He didn’t come back that night.

Early the following day, Macy posted a picture on her Instagram burner account:

"When you're with the right person, every day feels like Valentine's Day."

The accompanying photo? Macy and Ashton are kissing and surrounded by his circle of friends, celebrating.

Content

After work, I grabbed dinner at a restaurant downtown and strolled through Riverfront Park. I delayed going home until it was completely dark.

When I got back, the lights were on. Ashton was home—a rare sight these days. He took my coat and bag and hung them on the rack.

"Why are you home so late?" he asked.

"Did you eat yet? I can make you some noodles."

I used to be the one saying those lines and doing those things. Who was he performing for now?

My voice was cold. "I have a meeting tomorrow. Don’t bother."

I caught a flicker of something in his eyes—guilt? Discomfort? It only made me feel more disgusted.

Was this his attempt to make amends after sneaking off with Macy to a hotel last night?

I headed straight for the guest room.

Ashton grabbed my wrist.

“Lila, about last night…”

I turned around. The dim light from the hallway highlighted his pale face, beads of cold sweat glistening on his forehead. His usually sharp jawline was rough with stubble.

For years, I adored that face. Now, it only repulsed me.

Love and its absence—how starkly different they feel.

I didn’t let him finish. I walked into the guest room, shutting the door in his face.

Last night, I painstakingly prepared a special dinner and even reminded him to come home early.

He had no idea I planned to tell him I was pregnant.

But instead, he took a phone call, claimed he had to work late, and left for the night.

I waited for him in silence, sitting on the couch until dawn. The dishes I’d cooked remained untouched, cold.

The ice cream cake I ordered weeks ago sat in its box, melting into a sticky puddle on the floor.

As I decided to clean up, my phone pinged with a notification.

It was a post from a burner Instagram account I didn’t recognize, one of Ashton’s followers.

The account posted a live picture just minutes ago: "When you're with the right person, every day feels like Valentine's Day."

The photo was of Ashton kissing Macy. His friends, all cheering, surrounded them.

Those friends—five years of marriage, and I had never met them.

Whenever I tried to join his social circle, he would brush me off, calling them mere drinking buddies.

That night, I scrolled through every post-Macy had ever shared. It was all there—photos, captions, proof. They had been meeting behind my back for years.

In her posts, Ashton was caring, attentive, and generous—willing to give her the world.

This side of him was a stranger to me.