Chapter 2

The final nail in the coffin of our marriage, the moment my heart truly flatlined, was our fifth wedding anniversary. I remember the date vividly. Isabella had told me she'd be working late, a big international deal closing.

That night, the Austin skyline erupted. The Frost Bank Tower, our city's most iconic building, was lit up not with its usual cool blue, but with a dazzling, romantic display. Giant, scrolling letters of light: "ALEX IS BACK! MY LOVE, MY LIFE! - I." Drones formed hearts in the sky. Social media exploded. #AustinLoveStory #AlexAndIsabella. Pictures of them, Bella and her "college sweetheart" Alex, kissing passionately under the light show, champagne flutes in hand, went viral. News outlets picked it up. "Tech Magnate's Grand Romantic Gesture for Returning Beau."

I saw it all on the flickering TV in the bleak hospital waiting room. I was there with her father, Mr. Harrison. He'd had a bad turn, and Isabella, despite my calls, was "too swamped."

Mr. Harrison, a good man, a man who'd always treated me like a son, saw the news report over my shoulder. He saw the raw pain I couldn't hide. His frail hand reached for mine.

"Jake," he rasped, his voice weak but firm. "Enough. She's not worth this. Let her go. For your own sake, son. Divorce her."

I tried to protest, to say his health was more important.

He shook his head. "My health is what it is. I don't have long, Jake. Seeing you free of her... that would be a comfort. I never should have let her drag you into this mess." He fumbled in his bedside table, pulling out a checkbook and a pre-written cashier's check. "This is for you. A fresh start. Don't argue. You earned it, taking care of this old man when his own daughter wouldn't." He pressed it into my hand. "Now go. Live your life."

Leaving the hospital, the city lights felt like a personal insult. The air thrummed with their celebrated love, while I was nursing a dying man and a dead marriage.

In my car, I stared at the check. A significant sum. More than I'd ever seen. It felt like blood money, but also like a lifeline.

The next morning, I called Isabella. Straight to voicemail. Seven times. Each unanswered call solidified my resolve. On the eighth try, she picked up.

"What?" Her voice, sharp, impatient. The background noise was faint, but I could hear Alex's laughter.

"Where are you?" I asked, my own voice sounding distant.

"Working. What do you want, Jake?"

The lie was so casual. "Isabella," I said, the words finally coming out, clean and cold. "Tomorrow morning. Nine AM. My lawyer's office. We're filing for divorce."

A pause. Then, a scoff. "Playing games now, are we? Fine. Send me the papers. I'll sign." Click. She hung up.

I drove to the sterile, empty house we once shared. My house, technically, bought before the wedding. I started packing. Only my things. The "our" things, the matching towel sets she never used, the couple's cookbook still in its cellophane, the framed photo from our wedding where I was beaming and she looked like she was facing a firing squad – they could all stay. Remnants of a life that was never truly shared. Love, or the lack of it, was starkly obvious in the archaeology of a shared home. She had never loved me. It was a simple, brutal truth I'd been too blind to see.