Chapter 1

My husband, Nathan Cross, was the city’s top bomb squad commander.

He had defused countless explosives and saved hundreds of lives. Yet, he never once thought to fix our crumbling marriage.

The day I asked for a divorce was our fifth wedding anniversary.

At nine in the morning, I sat by the TV, watching the live broadcast as he calmly snipped a detonator wire.

At ten-fifty, the crisis was averted. The camera caught Nathan with his arm wrapped around his assistant, Sierra Vance, giving an interview. His eyes were softer than I had ever seen them.

"I couldn’t have made it this far without Sierra," he told the reporters. "She's spent every late night by my side."

I listened, my hand resting gently on my slightly swollen belly. A numb chill settled deep in my chest.

At one-thirty in the afternoon, my phone chimed with a text from him: [Working overtime. Won't be home for dinner.]

Moments later, Sierra’s Ins story updated: a video of Nathan leaning close, tenderly fastening a diamond necklace around her throat.

I turned off my screen, walked to the dining table, and threw away the four-course dinner I had spent four hours preparing.

At eight-twenty in the evening, Sierra posted again. Bright fireworks lit up the night sky, and Nathan sat beside her, laughing freely.

In our five years of marriage, days like this had become the routine.

I was used to it. I was numb.

At eleven-fifty-eight, the front door clicked open. Nathan walked in, carrying the faint smell of gunpowder and fireworks.

I looked up at him. "Today was our fifth anniversary."

Nathan froze, as if just remembering. But his guilt didn't last a second. He shrugged it off casually.

"Sorry. I’ll make it up to you next time."

"No need."

I pulled the folder from my bag and slid it across the table.

"Nathan, let's get a divorce."

Nathan glanced at the papers but didn't take them.

Frowning, he took on that lecture tone he always used with me.

"Don't throw a tantrum, Chloe. Didn't you see the news? I was busy saving lives."

"I’ll put in for leave tomorrow. We’ll do dinner, and I’ll buy you a gift. Put the papers away. Don't pull this again."

I picked up the pen and pressed it into his hand.

"I'm not throwing a tantrum."

"Nathan, I'm truly done living like this."

Nathan’s jaw clenched. He clearly thought I was being ungrateful and irrational.

He gave me a hard, cold look.

"Chloe, are you serious?"

"You're out of your mind asking for a divorce in the middle of the night. Tomorrow morning, when you come to your senses and beg me to take you back, I won't care."

I nodded calmly, letting him know I understood.

Seeing my stubborn silence, Nathan lost what little patience he had left.

He snatched the divorce agreement from my hands, scribbled his signature across the bottom, and tossed the papers back onto my lap.

Ding-dong.

The living room wall clock chimed. I glanced over.

Midnight sharp. On the exact day of our fifth anniversary, Nathan and I were finished.

A bitter smile pulled at my lips, accompanied by a sharp, suffocating ache in my chest.

I had planned to tell him about the baby tonight.

But when I looked up, the master bedroom door slammed shut, rattling the frame.

Nathan had always been like this.

My feelings never mattered to him. Whether I was angry or heartbroken, it had nothing to do with him.

Over the past five years, whenever I got upset, I would sleep in the guest room. Nathan never once came to check on me.

Only when I couldn't bear the silent treatment anymore and moved my pillows back into the master bedroom would he look up and say lazily:

"Done making a scene?"

Whenever our mutual acquaintances asked me:

"Nathan is such an intense, powerful guy—does he spoil you when you two fight?"

I could only give them an empty smile and reply:

"We... we never fight."

They would sigh in envy, complimenting how mature our love was.

To me, every word felt like a slap in the face.

Only I knew the humiliating truth: Nathan simply never considered me worth arguing with.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, grabbed my packed suitcase, and walked out into the cold night.

The next morning at nine, I didn't have to rush out of bed to cook Nathan breakfast. For the first time in years, I slept in.

When I reached for my phone, I saw two missed messages sent at seven-thirty:

[You're not home? You stayed out all night?]

[Where the hell are you? Call me the second you read this.]

I stared at the screen, thought for a moment, and typed a short reply:

[Pick a day this week so we can head to City Hall and file the paperwork.]

Within five minutes, my phone rang. Nathan’s name flashed across the screen.

I was genuinely surprised.

When we first got married, I was clingy. I loved calling him to share little details about my day.

Nathan's reaction was always cold. He had even snapped at me twice:

"Your calls have zero substance, Chloe. My time is valuable, and I don't appreciate you wasting it."

"Next time, just text. If it's important, I'll reply."

Yet, I had overheard him on the phone with Sierra.

His voice would drop to a gentle, teasing murmur. He would spend forty minutes discussing new dress styles and lipstick shades with her, chuckling softly:

"Talking to you is never boring. Knowing what my assistant likes is part of my job."

I had cried my eyes out over that. It changed nothing.

Whenever I called him after that, he declined the call immediately.

Eventually, we stopped talking on the phone altogether.

I swiped to answer.

"Hello? What is it?"

Nathan’s voice was clipped and irritated.

"Where are you running off to in the middle of the night? Send me your location."

"I took the day off. I'm coming to pick you up so we can celebrate our anniversary properly."

I paused, feeling a faint wave of exhaustion.

"You don't need to. Nathan, we already signed the divorce papers last night."

There was dead silence on the other end.

I hesitated, then added gently, "If you're free today, we should probably stop by your mom's place and let her know."

Beep. Beep. Beep.

He hung up on me.

I let out a soft sigh, long accustomed to his dismissive attitude.

I got out of bed, brushed my teeth, and bought a basket of fresh fruit to take to Evelyn's apartment.

Whether Nathan showed up or not, his mother deserved to hear the truth from me.

At two-thirty in the afternoon, I arrived outside Evelyn’s building.

Just as I walked toward the lobby entrance, a familiar black sedan pulled up.

The door opened, and Nathan stepped out. Our eyes met.

Before I could even offer a polite nod, the passenger door flew open. A young, smiling face popped out, waving enthusiastically at me.

"Chloe! What a coincidence!"

It was Sierra.