Chapter 1

The air in our home was always set to a perfect seventy-two degrees, but a chill had settled deep in my bones that nothing could touch. I sat on the edge of the cream-colored sofa, my fingers tracing the seams of the leather. Everything in this house, a space I designed myself, was a monument to our perfect life. The open-plan living room, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, the carefully chosen art on the walls-it all screamed success, happiness, partnership.

My husband, David Thorne, was the other half of that perfect picture. Everyone said so. For ten years, we were the couple to envy. Six of those years we' d been married. He was charismatic, handsome, and utterly devoted. He took me on every business trip, unwilling to spend a night apart. Our friends joked that he was whipped. I used to smile at that, feeling a warm pride. Now, the thought left a bitter taste in my mouth.

My phone buzzed on the glass coffee table. It was him. I let it vibrate a second time before answering, forcing my voice to sound normal.

"Hi, honey."

"Eleanor, my love. Just checking in. Did you eat?" His voice was smooth, full of the same practiced affection he' d used for a decade.

"Not yet," I said, looking at the untouched containers of gourmet takeout he' d had delivered. His favorite Thai place. Another one of his grand, thoughtful gestures that now felt like a performance.

"You have to eat, El. I know you get wrapped up in your work. I worry about you when I' m not there."

I' m not there. The words hung in the air. He was on a business trip in Chicago, a crucial meeting he couldn't miss. That' s what he told me. That' s what he always told me.

"I' ll eat soon," I managed. My voice was tight.

"Good. The meeting ran late, but it went well. I miss you like crazy. I wish you were here."

A coldness spread through my chest, a hollow feeling that had become my constant companion for the last forty-eight hours. It started with a simple accident. He' d left his phone on the charger while he showered, and a call came in from an unsaved number. I almost ignored it, but the caller was persistent. Thinking it might be an emergency from his office, I answered.

"Hello?"

There was a pause, then a small, hesitant voice. "Daddy?"

The word hit me with the force of a physical blow. I couldn't breathe. My mind went blank. I heard a woman' s sharp voice in the background, a quick scramble, and then the line went dead.

Daddy.

Not a client. Not a colleague. Daddy.

I hung up the phone, my hand shaking so badly I almost dropped it. I stood frozen in the middle of our perfect bedroom, the sound of the shower a dull roar in my ears. The world I had built, the life I believed in, cracked down the middle.

Now, listening to him on the phone, his voice dripping with false sincerity, I felt a wave of nausea.

"I miss you too, David," I lied. The words felt like ash in my mouth.

"I' ll be home Friday. I' ll make it up to you, I promise. We' ll spend the whole weekend together."

I didn' t answer. I couldn' t. My silence stretched, and I could almost hear the gears turning in his head as he tried to figure out my mood.

"Is everything okay, El? You sound... quiet."

"Just tired," I said. "Long day."

"Okay, my love. Get some rest. I love you."

"You too," I whispered, and ended the call.

I stared at the black screen of my phone. I love you. The words were a weapon he used to keep me in place, to keep the illusion alive.

I stood up and walked to the kitchen island where the takeout containers sat. I opened the lid of the Pad Thai. The smell, once a comfort, now turned my stomach. I picked up the container, walked to the trash can, and scraped the entire meal into the bin. I did the same with the spring rolls and the green curry. I watched the perfectly good food, his "thoughtful gesture," get buried under coffee grounds and junk mail. It was a small act, a silent rebellion, but it was all I had right now.

The house was too quiet. The silence pressed in on me, filled with the ghost of that child' s voice. I needed to know. I needed confirmation, even though my heart already felt the crushing weight of the truth.

I walked quietly down the hall toward the guest room, where his mother, Mrs. Thorne, was staying for the week. She' d always been kind to me, praising me as the perfect wife for her son. She treated me like the daughter she never had. As I neared the door, I heard her voice, low and urgent.

"David, you have to be more careful. What if Eleanor had heard?"

I flattened myself against the wall, my heart pounding in my ears. My breath caught in my throat.

"I know, Mom, I know. It was a mistake," David' s voice, tinny through the phone speaker, replied. "Sarah left the phone where Leo could reach it."

Sarah. The name shot through me. Sarah Jenkins. His former assistant. A mousy, ambitious woman I' d barely given a second thought. She had quit two years ago to "move back home and care for her sick mother." Another lie.

"She needs to be more discreet," Mrs. Thorne chided, her voice sharp. "And you. You can' t keep this up forever. The boys are getting older. They need their father."

"Leo is four now, and little Sam is almost two," she continued. "They ask about you. It' s not fair to them, or to Sarah."

Four years old. Two years old. My mind raced, doing the cold, hard math. Our sixth wedding anniversary was last month. The children were born within our marriage. While I was designing our dream home, he was building a secret family. While I was celebrating our anniversaries, he was celebrating their birthdays. The business trips. All the late nights. It wasn' t work. It was them.

"I know, Mom. I' m handling it," David said, his voice strained. "Just... make sure Eleanor doesn' t suspect anything. Keep her happy."

A dry, silent laugh escaped my lips. Keep me happy. The irony was so profound it was almost funny. My mother-in-law, the woman who hugged me and told me she loved me, was his accomplice. She knew. The whole time, she knew. Her kindness was a lie, a tool to manage me while she protected her son and her secret grandchildren.

Then I heard it again, this time through his mother' s phone. A small voice, clear as day.

"Grandma? Is that Daddy on the phone? Can I talk to him?"

The sound pierced through my shock, straight into my heart. It was a happy, innocent sound. The sound of a child who loved his father. A father who was my husband.

My perfect life wasn' t just a lie. It was a joke. And I was the punchline.

I pushed myself off the wall and walked back to the living room, my steps unnaturally steady. I sat back down on the sofa, the same spot as before. The city lights glittered outside the window, a million tiny shards of glass. My world had shattered into just as many pieces. The chill I' d felt before was gone, replaced by an icy calm. The love was dead. The trust was gone. All that was left was the question of what to do next.

And in that moment, sitting in the beautiful, empty tomb I had designed, I knew I couldn't stay. I had to get out. Not just out of the house, but out of this life. I had to disappear completely.