Chapter 1

This was the hundredth time.

The hundredth time Sophia Hayes had packed a bag, kissed my cheek with the air of someone completing a task, and left to go "support" her muse.

For five years, our marriage had operated on this bizarre, unspoken transaction. She would disappear for days, sometimes weeks, to be with her childhood sweetheart, David Chen, propping up his perpetually failing tech startup.

And each time she returned, a guilt offering would appear.

The first time, it was a vintage Patek Philippe watch. The tenth time, a first-edition signed copy of a book I once mentioned I liked. The fiftieth, a small, unassuming landscape painting that turned out to be by a forgotten 19th-century master.

Now, there were ninety-nine such items. They filled our sterile, minimalist mansion with a silent, screaming history of my wife' s absence and my own complicity. They were beautiful, priceless, and they made me feel like a well-kept piece of furniture.

Today was the hundredth time. And I was no longer the same man.

I watched her from the doorway of our master bedroom. She was fastening the clasp on a diamond tennis bracelet, her movements fluid and practiced. She was always beautiful, always poised, a creature of wealth and influence who moved through the world as if it owed her its complete cooperation.

"David' s company has a major presentation tomorrow," she said, her voice light, not looking at me. "It's a make-or-break moment for them. I need to be there to make sure he' s focused."

The old Ethan would have felt a familiar, dull ache in his chest. He would have asked, "What about us, Sophia?" He might have pleaded, a little. He might have reminded her of a dinner reservation she was about to miss.

But I wasn't him anymore.

I said nothing. I just watched.

My silence finally registered. She turned, a slight frown on her perfect face. "Ethan? Are you listening?"

"I am," I said. My voice was calm, even. It surprised me a little. It seemed to surprise her more.

"Well? Don't you have anything to say?"

I thought about the ninety-nine gifts. The ninety-nine apologies made of gold and canvas and antique wood. They had been meant to placate me, to buy my silence. But over five years, they had done something else. They had built a fortress around my heart. They had become my armor.

And they had made me very, very wealthy in my own right.

Instead of answering her question, I walked over to the corner of the room. There, on a pedestal, sat her latest offering, number ninety-nine. It was a Ming dynasty vase, a stunning piece of celadon porcelain she' d picked up at a Sotheby's auction. Its value was obscene.

I picked it up. It was heavy, solid. Real.

"This is the most expensive one, isn't it?" I asked, my tone conversational.

Sophia looked relieved, thinking this was my usual, passive-aggressive way of acknowledging the transaction. "It is. A good investment. It' s in your name, of course. Like everything else."

"Of course," I repeated.

I carried the vase out of the bedroom and into my study. I placed it carefully on the large mahogany desk. Beside it, a single document waited.

Sophia followed me, her curiosity piqued. "What are you doing?"

I didn't answer. I just pulled out the chair for her. I tapped the paper.

"Before you go," I said softly. "I need you to sign this."

She leaned over, scanning the title. "An addendum to the pre-nuptial agreement?" She laughed, a short, brittle sound. "Ethan, is this really necessary? After all this time?"

"It's just a formality," I said, my face a blank mask. "My lawyer advised it. Given the value of the assets you've... transferred to me."

She sighed, the sound of a very busy, very important person being momentarily inconvenienced. She picked up the pen I had laid out. Her eyes scanned the first page, a dense block of legalese designed to be skimmed, not read. She was already thinking about David, about his presentation, about her role as his savior.

She signed her name with a flourish at the bottom of the last page.

She didn't read the fine print. She never did.

As she put the pen down, she seemed to feel a pang of something. Maybe it was guilt, maybe it was just a performance of it. She reached out and touched my arm, a rare flicker of something that almost looked like warmth in her eyes.

"I know I've been... distracted," she said. "When I get back, I promise, things will be different. I'll take you to the Met. We can spend the whole day, just the two of us."

The old Ethan would have clung to that promise like a lifeline. He would have seen it as a sign of hope.

I just nodded.

"Okay," I said.

I watched her walk out of the study, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor. I heard the front door open, then close.

I waited a full minute, listening to the silence of the massive house. Then, I picked up the document.

My eyes went to the title she had so carelessly ignored.

PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE

I carefully placed the signed divorce papers into a thick manila envelope, right next to the lawyer' s notarized statement confirming that all ninety-nine "gifts," now liquidated, had funded a trust in my name, a trust she had no claim to.

She promised to take me to the Met when she got back.

She just didn' t know that by the time she got back, I' d be gone. And our marriage would be legally over.