Chapter 1

The silence in our house was a new kind of heavy, a weight that settled after Liam came home. He was a hero, the newspapers said, decorated and brave, but the man who sat across from me at the dinner table was a ghost. His eyes, once full of life, were now vacant, staring at a wall only he could see.

I pushed the peas around my plate, the scraping of my fork loud in the quiet room. "Is it good?" I asked, my voice too bright.

Liam didn't answer. He hadn't really answered in weeks.

My phone buzzed on the table. A text from a number I didn't have saved, but I knew exactly who it was.

I found a new EMDR specialist in the city. Liam needs this. He needs me to get him through this. When can I come by to discuss it? - Scarlett

Scarlett. Liam's childhood friend. The one who hadn't spoken to him in a decade until she saw his face plastered on the news. Now, she was a renowned trauma therapist, and she had decided, with a terrifying single-mindedness, that she was the only one who could "save" him.

I typed back a firm reply. Liam and I have it handled. Thank you for your concern.

Liam flinched at the buzz of my phone, his head snapping up. "Who is it?"

"No one important," I said, trying to keep my voice calm.

But it was too late. The doorbell rang, sharp and insistent. I didn't need to guess who it was.

I opened the door to find Scarlett standing on our porch, a professionally concerned look on her face. She held a Tupperware container, steam fogging the lid. "Olivia, I was so worried. I know Liam prefers my cooking when he's feeling down. I brought his favorite."

She tried to push past me, but I held my ground. "Scarlett, I told you, we're fine."

"Are you?" she asked, her voice dripping with false sympathy as she peered over my shoulder at Liam, who was still frozen at the table. "He looks like he's a million miles away. My methods could bring him back, Olivia. You just have to let me help."

Her persistence was a physical force, pushing against me. Liam had told her no, repeatedly. He didn't want her here, didn't want her "therapy." But she never listened. She only saw what she wanted to see: a broken man only she could fix.

A week later, we were at a community fundraiser for veterans. It was supposed to be a good thing, a step toward normalcy. But Scarlett was there, of course, hovering like a vulture.

Liam was growing agitated, the crowd and the noise pressing in on him. His breathing grew shallow, his knuckles white where he gripped the arm of his chair. I put my hand on his back, murmuring soft words he couldn't hear.

Suddenly, Scarlett was there, kneeling in front of him. "Liam, look at me. Breathe with me," she commanded, her voice cutting through the noise. She ignored me completely, her focus entirely on him.

She started a grounding exercise, her professional voice loud and clear, drawing the attention of everyone around us. People stopped and stared. She was putting on a performance, casting herself as the calm, capable therapist and me as the useless, panicked wife.

"He's having a severe episode," she announced to the nearby onlookers. "He needs space. He needs a professional." She guided Liam to his feet, leading him away from the table, away from me. He went with her, his eyes still distant, following her voice like a lifeline. I was left alone, watching them go, the whispers of the crowd like a thousand tiny cuts.

The final break came on a rainy Tuesday. We were driving home from a doctor's appointment, the one I had to fight for weeks to get him to attend. Scarlett was in her own car, a few lengths behind us. She had "coincidentally" been in the area.

A truck hydroplaned, spinning wildly across the wet asphalt. It was coming right for us. Time slowed down. I saw the headlights, the spray of water, the inevitable impact.

Our car was hit, spinning us into the guardrail with a horrible screech of metal. The world went sideways. My head slammed against the window. Through the shattered glass, I saw Scarlett's car had also been clipped, coming to a stop just a few yards away.

Smoke poured from her engine. She was slumped over the wheel.

Liam was already moving. He unbuckled his seatbelt, his movements frantic. "Scarlett!" he yelled, his voice raw with panic.

"Liam," I whispered, my vision blurring. "My leg... I think it's broken."

He looked at me, a flicker of something in his eyes, but then he looked back at Scarlett's car. "I have to get her out," he said, his voice strained. "The car could explode."

He scrambled out of the wreckage, ignoring my plea, and ran to her car. He pulled her door open and carefully lifted her out, cradling her in his arms as he carried her to the side of the road, away from the danger. He left me in the twisted metal of our own car.

He chose her. In that moment of life and death, he chose to save her first.

The world faded to black. I drifted in and out of consciousness, fragments of memories floating by. I saw Liam on our wedding day, promising to always protect me. I saw him before the war, laughing and whole. Then I saw the recent months, the way he'd pull away from my touch, the way his eyes would light up, just for a second, when Scarlett's name came up. The problem hadn't started with the accident, it had been growing for a long time, a sickness in our marriage I had refused to name.

When I woke up properly, I was in a hospital bed. Liam was sitting in a chair beside me, his head in his hands.

"You're awake," he said, his voice thick with a guilt that was too little, too late. "Olivia, I'm so sorry."

"Is she okay?" I asked, my own voice a dry rasp.

"She's fine. Just a few bruises," he said, then rushed to explain. "I had to get her out, Liv. Her car was smoking. I thought..."

I just stared at him.

"We can't go on like this," he said, avoiding my eyes. "I think... I think we need a separation. Just for a little while. So I can get my head straight. Scarlett thinks it's for the best. It's not safe for you to be around me when I'm like this."

He was using my safety as an excuse. A fake separation. It was the coward's way out, a way to have her without having to look me in the eye and admit it.

A cold calm settled over me. The part of me that had been fighting, hoping, and breaking finally went still.

"Okay, Liam," I said, my voice eerily steady. "If that's what you think is best."

He looked relieved, the tension leaving his shoulders. He didn't see the ice forming in my heart. He didn't understand that this wasn't a temporary break for me. This was the end.

A week later, a lawyer he'd hired brought the papers to my hospital room. It was a legal separation, clean and quick. As I signed my name, my hand didn't even shake. I thought of the vows we'd made, the promises of in sickness and in health. They felt like words from a different lifetime, spoken by two people who no longer existed.

Liam came to see me after the lawyer left. "It's just on paper, Liv," he said softly, trying to take my hand. "It doesn't change how I feel about you. We'll get through this, and we'll be together again."

I pulled my hand away. I looked at him, really looked at him, and felt nothing. Not anger, not sadness, just a vast, empty space where my love for him used to be.

"I hope you get the help you need, Liam," I said, and a part of him must have heard the finality in my tone because he flinched. He tried to say something else, but the words died on his lips. He just stood there for a moment before turning and walking out of my room, and out of my life.