Chapter 1

On the fifth anniversary of our move to D.C., I spent the entire afternoon making Matthew' s favorite meal, a braised short rib risotto that took four hours. The Georgetown apartment filled with the rich smell of it, a scent that used to mean home.

I set the table for two, lit the candles, and waited.

At 8 p.m., he was an hour late. At 9 p.m., he was two hours late.

Finally, at 10:30 p.m., my phone buzzed. It was Matthew.

"Hey, Stel. Listen, I' m so sorry. I' m completely buried here. We' re finalizing the Senator' s new policy brief on infrastructure. It' s all hands on deck. I' m not going to make it home."

His voice was tired, but it had that familiar, important edge to it, the one that made me feel small.

"Okay, Matt. I understand. Work is important."

"I' ll make it up to you, I promise. This weekend, we' ll do something big."

"It' s fine," I said, my voice flat. I knew the promise was empty.

We hung up. I blew out the candles and scraped the expensive meal into a Tupperware container. It felt like a funeral.

Later, scrolling through my phone in bed, I saw a new Instagram story from Gabrielle Chavez.

The picture was a selfie. Her, Matthew, and a few other staffers crammed into a booth at The Tune Inn, a dive bar on Capitol Hill. They were all grinning, holding up beers. Matthew' s arm was draped casually around the back of the booth, right behind her head.

Her caption was sharp, aimed like an arrow.

"So grateful to have a mentor who gets that the real work happens after hours. #LegislativeVictory #CapitolHill"

My fingers moved on their own. I tapped the comment box and typed a single word.

"Impressive."

I hit send.

Less than a minute later, my phone rang. It was Matthew. His voice wasn' t tired anymore. It was sharp with annoyance.

"What was that? What are you trying to do?"

"What do you mean?" I asked, my voice calm.

"The comment, Stella. On Gabrielle' s post. It looks weird. People will talk."

"I was just impressed with your work ethic," I said. The lie felt smooth on my tongue. "You said you were finalizing a brief."

A beat of silence. "We were. This was after. A quick drink to celebrate. You' re overthinking this."

I thought about my father' s funeral last year. Matthew had called me from D.C., his voice tight with a "work crisis," saying he couldn' t possibly get away. Two days later, I found out he' d spent that entire afternoon consoling Gabrielle because her first solo press release had a typo and she was having a meltdown. He' d told me her career was fragile, that she needed his support.

"You' re right," I said into the phone, my voice hollow. "I' m overthinking it. Your career is important, Matthew. You should celebrate your victories."

I hung up before he could reply.

I stared at the dark ceiling of our apartment, the one I' d decorated, the one I paid half the rent for with money from freelance copyediting gigs.

I knew, with a certainty that chilled my bones, this was the beginning of the end.