Chapter 3

Back in the sterile reality of her office, Olivia stared blankly at her computer screen.

The vibrant colors of a new campaign proposal seemed to mock her.

How could she focus on taglines and target demographics when her life was imploding?

She tried to message Ethan.

"We need to talk. Urgent."

Delivered.

Not read.

Just like so many of her messages lately.

She scrolled back through their recent exchanges.

Her paragraphs, full of questions about his day, attempts to connect, gentle prods about their growing distance.

His replies: "👍," "Sounds good," "Can't talk now."

The erosion hadn't been sudden.

It was a slow fade, a creeping glacier of neglect.

His "client dinners" had become almost nightly.

"Late nights at the office" were the norm.

She, immersed in launching a new seasonal beer line for the brewery, had initially chalked it up to parallel career demands.

They were both ambitious, driven.

She' d tried to be the supportive wife.

Then came the PR party incident a few months back.

Ethan's firm had hosted a major event at a swanky downtown hotel.

Olivia couldn't make it; her brewery had its own distributor meeting.

The next day, a local lifestyle blogger posted a gallery of photos.

There was Ethan, laughing, head close to Izzy' s.

Izzy' s hand was on his arm, lingering just a little too long.

When Olivia had gently questioned it, showing him the photo, Ethan had waved it away.

"She's just a kid, Liv, an ambitious analyst. It's networking. You're reading too much into it."

He' d made her feel foolish, overly suspicious.

She remembered the sting of that dismissal.

She' d tried to initiate deeper conversations.

"Ethan, I feel like we' re drifting apart."

"Are you happy?"

"What can we do to reconnect?"

He' d often shut down.

"I'm too stressed from work, Liv. Can we not do this right now?"

Or worse, he' d turn it around on her.

"You're just adding pressure when I'm already swamped."

Her internal struggle had been relentless.

Was it her fault?

Was she not supportive enough?

Was her own success, her growing reputation in the Austin craft beer scene, somehow intimidating him?

She' d spent countless nights poring over old photos.

Carefree college days at UT, hoisting longhorn signs at football games.

Their small wedding at Chapel Dulcinea, overlooking the hill country.

Early marriage, full of laughter and shared dreams in their first tiny apartment.

When did things change?

When did he stop seeing her?

The man in those photos, the one with the easy smile and loving eyes, felt like a ghost.

Her phone remained silent.

No reply from Ethan.

The weight of his indifference pressed down on her, heavy and suffocating.

She felt a dull ache spread through her chest.

It was the ache of a love dying a slow, unacknowledged death.

Finally, hours later, her phone chimed.

Ethan.

"Just got out of a meeting. What's up?"

His casualness was a fresh stab.

She typed, her fingers stiff.

"I need you to come home. Now."

"Can it wait? Izzy and I are just wrapping up a project brief."

Izzy.

The name felt like poison on her tongue, or rather, on her screen.

"No, Ethan. It can't wait."

A pause, then: "Alright. Be there in an hour or so."

An hour.

To discuss the implosion of their marriage.

He was giving her an hour.

The bitterness rose, sharp and acidic.