Chapter 1

The turkey was perfect, golden brown, sitting on the counter.

I' d spent all afternoon cooking, getting the Thanksgiving dinner ready.

Our upscale suburban home was quiet, too quiet.

Izzy, my wife, was supposed to be home hours ago.

She runs Elysian Living, her lifestyle brand, growing fast.

She thinks she built it all herself.

I checked my watch again, a familiar knot in my stomach.

My phone buzzed, not Izzy, just another market update.

I scrolled through Instagram, a habit.

Then I saw it.

Kev Davenport, Izzy' s "Brand Strategist," posted a new story.

A slick, younger guy, always around Izzy.

The picture showed him grinning, leaning against a brand-new, vintage Aston Martin, a rare silver model.

Izzy was in the shot, her hand on Kev' s shoulder.

Her wedding ring finger was bare, nothing on it.

Kev' s caption: "Feeling blessed! Izzy knows how to treat her MVP. #BossLady #Gratitude."

MVP. My jaw tightened.

I looked at the untouched dinner, the cooling turkey, the wilting salad.

Slowly, I started putting the food away.

Each dish went into the fridge, a cold finality to the wasted effort.

My phone finally rang. Izzy.

I answered, expecting an apology, maybe an excuse.

"Ethan, what the hell did you say to Janice about company cars?"

Her voice was sharp, accusatory. No hello, no sorry I' m late.

Janice was a mutual acquaintance, prone to gossip.

"What are you talking about, Izzy?" I kept my voice even.

"Don' t play dumb. She said you made some sarcastic comment about how Elysian Living is suddenly buying Aston Martins for its executives."

I almost laughed.

"I haven' t spoken to Janice in weeks, Izzy. And I' ve been here, cooking dinner."

"Well, someone said something!" she snapped.

"The Aston Martin is a brilliant marketing move for the brand, Kev deserves it. He' s been crucial."

"A marketing move," I repeated, flat.

"Yes! And you' re being completely unsupportive and petty, as usual. I don' t have time for this. I' m busy."

She hung up.

I stared at my phone. Unsupportive. Petty.

The words echoed in the empty kitchen.