Chapter 3

The anniversary arrived like a storm cloud.

Mark had been home for two days, a caricature of his former self.

Overly solicitous, a strained cheerfulness in his voice.

"Morning, Em. Sleep well?" He'd kiss my forehead, a dry, fleeting touch.

He talked about a new prototype, a breakthrough in battery tech. His eyes, though, were distant.

He was a bad actor in a poorly written play.

I watched him, this stranger in my husband's skin.

The night before our anniversary, he came into the bedroom, already dressed in a travel suit.

"Em, something's come up. A huge crisis with the European launch. I have to fly out tonight."

His gaze skittered away from mine.

"Tonight, Mark?"

"I know, I know. Terrible timing. I am so, so sorry. We'll celebrate properly when I get back. I promise. A real blowout."

He fumbled with his briefcase. "I've already booked a courier. Your gift should arrive tomorrow morning. Something special."

He didn't meet my eyes.

He didn't have to. I knew where he was going.

Paris. With Sophia.

"Don't let me keep you," I said, my voice flat.

A flicker of something – relief? – crossed his face.

He leaned in for a kiss, but I turned my head. His lips brushed my cheek.

"I'll call you from the airport," he said, already backing away.

He was gone moments later. The front door clicked shut with a chilling finality.

I sat on the edge of the bed, the silence of the house pressing in.

Ten years.

I remembered our first apartment, a tiny box in Mountain View, filled with takeout containers and dreams.

Mark, then, was all passion and infectious energy. He'd sketch car designs on napkins, his eyes blazing with excitement.

I was his first investor, with my meager savings from my first engineering job.

I remembered his terror when I had the car accident, years ago. He'd held my hand in the ER, his face pale, refusing to leave my side.

He'd blamed himself, said he should have been driving.

When did that man die?

Or was he never real?

My phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number.

A picture. Sophia, radiant, holding up a glass of champagne. In the background, the unmistakable lattice of the Eiffel Tower.

The caption: *"He chose wisely, don't you think? Bon voyage to us! XOXO, S."*

Another message followed. *"Oh, and Mark says he'll be incommunicado for a bit. Very important meetings, you understand. Don't want you to worry."*

I didn't cry. The pain was a cold, hard knot in my stomach.

The betrayal wasn't just the affair. It was the systematic dismantling of our shared history, the casual cruelty of his lies.

He hadn't just left me. He'd erased me.