Chapter 2

Corinne POV

Grant' s voice, usually sharp and commanding, was now a soft murmur of concern, a stark contrast to the dismissive tone he' d used with me seconds before. He held the phone to his ear, his gaze fixed on some distant point, already miles away from our crumbling living room.

"Oh, honey, don' t cry," he crooned into the receiver, his thumb unconsciously rubbing the edge of the phone. "It' s okay. Just tell me what happened. Slow down."

From the muffled sounds, I could tell Kylee was in distress, her words tumbling out in a rush of feigned helplessness. It was a performance I' d witnessed firsthand, though never directed at me. She was a master at turning minor inconveniences into catastrophic emergencies, all to secure Grant' s undivided attention. Now, hearing it, it was sickening.

"A flat tire? In this weather?" Grant exclaimed, his concern escalating. "And the mechanic is being rude? Unbelievable. Don' t worry, I' m on my way. Don' t move an inch, I' ll be there in twenty minutes." He disconnected the call, already reaching for his car keys.

My mind reeled. A flat tire. That was the 'urgent matter' that superseded our decade-long marriage, the one he had just casually signed away. I remembered last winter when my car broke down on a deserted highway, miles from anywhere. I' d called him for hours, finally reaching him only for him to tell me he was in a crucial meeting and would send someone. Someone. Not him.

I watched him now, gathering his things, his movements swift and purposeful. He was a man on a mission, a knight rushing to his damsel' s aid. It was a role he never played for me. Never.

A bitter laugh bubbled up in my throat. All those years I' d spent trying to be the perfect wife, the supportive partner, the one who never caused trouble. All those years I' d rationalized his distance, his coldness, telling myself it was just how he was, an unavoidable byproduct of his ambitious nature. But he wasn' t cold. Not with her. He was tender, attentive, protective. My heart felt like a shriveled prune, squeezed dry of all its hope.

He paused by the door, glancing at me. "I' ll be back later," he said, his voice flat, already detached. "Don' t wait up."

I didn't reply. I just stood there, a silent sentinel in the ruins of my life. He left, the front door closing with a soft click that echoed like a gunshot.

I looked around our opulent living room, at the custom-made furniture, the expensive art, the life we had built. It all felt hollow, empty. It was time to clear it out. Not just physically, but emotionally.

I started with my closet. Dresses, shoes, bags – many of them gifts from Grant. Each item held a memory, a moment where I had hoped, where I had believed. I pulled them out, one by one, and tossed them into a large donation bin. The expensive diamond necklace he' d given me for our fifth anniversary, the one I cherished? Into the bin it went. I wanted nothing that carried his touch, his false affection.

Then I moved to my jewelry box, finding the intricate watch I' d bought him for his thirtieth birthday, engraved with our initials. I picked it up, my fingers tracing the cold metal. He rarely wore it. He preferred the flashier, newer models Kylee had probably picked out for him. I threw it in the bin too. Let someone else have it. Let them know what it felt like to have their heart in their hands.

Just as I was about to move to the bookshelf, the front door opened again. My breath caught. Had he forgotten something?

No. It was Grant, holding open the door for Kylee. And in her arms, a tiny fluffy white puppy, its tail wagging furiously. Kylee giggled, nuzzling its head.

"Oh, Grant, thank you, he' s perfect!" she cooed, her voice sickly sweet.

My blood ran cold. My mind flashed back to the tiny stray kitten I' d once found, bringing it home with hopes of giving it a loving home. Grant had been furious. He' d declared he hated animals, that they were messy, demanding, and a nuisance. He' d made me give it away. Now, here he was, beaming at a puppy, his arm protectively around Kylee.

"He' s a good boy, isn' t he?" Grant said, his eyes on Kylee and the puppy, a warmth radiating from him I hadn' t felt in years. "Kylee said she always wanted a puppy, so I thought, why not?"

He walked past me, as if I were part of the furniture, and headed to the kitchen. Kylee followed, still doting on the dog.

"Corinne, is dinner ready?" Grant called from the kitchen, his voice laced with casual expectation. "I' m starving."

My hands clenched. Dinner. Of course. For almost a decade, dinner had always been ready. Because I made it. Because I was his wife. His personal chef.

"No, Grant," I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. "Dinner isn' t ready. And it won' t be."

He emerged from the kitchen, a frown on his face. Kylee, still clutching the puppy, peered around his shoulder, her eyes wide with feigned shock.

"What do you mean it won' t be?" he demanded, his voice hardening. "Are you throwing some kind of tantrum?"

"Grant, darling, maybe Corinne is just tired," Kylee interjected, her voice soft, placating. She sidled up to him, placing a hand on his arm. "It' s been a long day for everyone. Why don' t I just order some takeout for us?"

Grant' s frown eased, his gaze softening as he looked at Kylee. "You' re right, sweetheart. Always so thoughtful." He turned back to me, his eyes cold again. "You see, Corinne? There are other ways to be useful."

Kylee then stepped forward, her innocent eyes fixed on me. "Corinne, I really am so sorry about... everything," she began, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "I never meant for any of this to happen. I truly hope you and Grant can... reconcile. You' ve been together for so long." She sniffled delicately, wiping a non-existent tear.

My patience snapped. "Don' t you dare, Kylee," I hissed, my voice low but lethal. "Don' t you dare stand there and pretend to be the innocent bystander. You knew exactly what you were doing. The long-drawn-out calls, the 'accidental' brushes, the way you looked at him across the room, the way you manipulated every situation to get his attention. It was calculated. Every single move."

Kylee' s eyes widened further, and then, as if on cue, a tear traced a path down her cheek. She let out a small, choked sob. "How can you say such things? I just... I admire Grant so much."

Before I could say another word, Grant pulled her into his arms, his back to me, shielding her. "Corinne! That' s enough! Have you no shame? She' s a young woman, you' re just jealous and spiteful." His voice was laced with disgust. He cradled Kylee' s head, stroking her hair. "It' s okay, sweetheart. She' s just lashing out because she can' t handle the truth."

I watched them, the familiar scene playing out for the last time. My husband, protecting his young intern, while I, his wife of nearly a decade, stood discarded, accused, and utterly invisible. I felt a profound weariness settle into my bones, a fatigue that went beyond physical exhaustion. I was tired of the fights. Tired of the heartache. Tired of him.

Later that evening, after they had gone to bed, I made a silent vow. I would never be this person again. I packed a small bag, leaving everything else behind. I drove to a clinic I'd researched discreetly. The procedure was swift, irreversible. I had given up so much for him, even the choice to be a mother, because he once said he wasn't ready to divide his attention. Now, with him so clearly divided, I knew I had to reclaim that part of myself. I ensured there would be no going back. Not for me. Not for us.