Chapter 2

The cleanup after dinner was my ritual of solitude. Sophia had retired to her home office for a series of late-night calls, and the kids were in their rooms, probably video-chatting with Ethan again. I was left with the plates, smeared with the sauce from the stir-fry Sophia had barely touched and the kids had complained their way through.

I was scrubbing a pan with more force than necessary when it happened. The glass dish soap dispenser, slick with suds, slipped from my grasp. It hit the edge of the granite countertop and shattered, sending shards of thick glass across the tile floor. One large piece skittered under the sink, but a smaller, sharper fragment caught the side of my hand as I instinctively tried to catch the bottle.

A sharp, hot pain shot up my arm. I looked down and saw a deep, clean cut across my palm, blood welling up instantly and dripping onto the white floor, a stark red against the tile.

"Damn it," I muttered, grabbing a dishtowel and pressing it hard against the wound. The blood soaked through it quickly. It was deeper than I thought.

I walked to Sophia's office and knocked softly on the door.

"What is it, Liam? I'm on a conference call," her voice came through, clipped and impatient.

"I cut myself," I said through the door. "It's pretty bad. Do you know where the first-aid kit is? I can't find it."

There was a long, exasperated sigh. The door opened a crack, and she glared out at me, her headset still on. She glanced at the blood-soaked towel in my hand with clear annoyance, not concern.

"For God's sake, Liam. Can't you be more careful? I'm in the middle of a major deal negotiation."

"I know, I'm sorry, I just need..."

"It's in the upstairs bathroom cabinet, where it always is," she snapped. "Just handle it. I have to get back to this."

She shut the door in my face. I heard her voice instantly become smooth and professional again as she spoke to her colleagues. I stood there for a moment, the throbbing in my hand drowned out by the roaring in my ears. She hadn't even asked if I was okay.

I went upstairs and found the kit. I cleaned the wound myself, wincing as the antiseptic burned. It needed stitches, I was sure of it, but I just pulled the edges together with butterfly bandages as tightly as I could and wrapped it in gauze. Every movement was a fresh jolt of pain.

As I sat on the edge of the tub, looking at my bandaged hand, something inside me shifted. It was a quiet, final click, like a lock falling into place. Her coldness wasn't just about the phone call. It wasn't about her being busy or stressed. It was about me. I was an inconvenience. A piece of domestic machinery that had malfunctioned and was disrupting her life. The parent-teacher conferences, the clean house, the hot meals-none of it registered. It was just expected. My injury was a nuisance, my pain an interruption.

In that moment, I knew. The premonition from earlier wasn't a fear, it was a fact. This wasn't a life. It was a service. And my contract was up. The years of swallowing my pride, of telling myself my sacrifice was for the good of the family, they all collapsed into a single, undeniable truth: they didn't value me. They didn't even see me.

I walked back downstairs, my steps slow and deliberate. I didn't knock this time. I opened her office door and walked in. She was pacing, deep in her call, gesturing with a pen. She shot me a look of pure fury. I walked over to her desk and pressed the 'end call' button on her computer screen.

The line went dead. The silence was sudden and absolute.

Sophia stared at me, her mouth hanging open in disbelief. "What the hell do you think you're doing? I was closing a seven-figure deal!"

I looked her straight in the eye, my bandaged hand throbbing at my side. The pain was a grounding force.

"Sophia," I said, my voice steady and clear. "I want a divorce."

Her rage faltered, replaced by utter shock. She blinked, as if she couldn't process the words.

"What?"

"I want a divorce," I repeated.

The shock vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by a scornful laugh.

"Don't be ridiculous, Liam," she said, shaking her head. "You're just being dramatic because you cut your hand. Go to bed."

She turned back to her computer, ready to dismiss me like a petulant child. But I didn't move. I just stood there, waiting, until she was forced to look at me again. The look in my eyes finally told her I was serious. Her own expression hardened, her jaw tight.

"You wouldn't dare," she whispered, her voice low and venomous.