Chapter 1

For seven years, I was the perfect husband.

Or rather, the perfect live-in help.

My parents died in a car crash when I was in college. The Davies family, friends of my parents, took me in. They paid for my final year of school and, upon graduation, arranged a marriage between me and their daughter, Olivia.

It wasn't a romance. It was a transaction.

They needed someone to manage their daughter, who was beautiful, intelligent, and completely uninterested in domestic life. I needed to repay a debt I felt I could never truly settle.

So I agreed.

We had a daughter, Lily. They insisted she take their last name. Lily Davies. It sounded right, somehow. She looked just like Olivia-stunningly beautiful, with the same cool, distant eyes.

I gave up my dream of being a fine artist and took a stable graphic design job at a firm one of their friends owned.

My life fell into a rigid routine.

I woke up at six, made breakfast, got Lily ready for school, went to work, and no matter what, I was home by five o'clock to cook dinner. Every single day. For seven years.

I never missed a day. I never complained.

Olivia appreciated the clean house and the hot meals. She never said thank you. It was simply expected.

Lily called me Ethan. Not Dad. Never Dad.

Her grandmother, Olivia's mother, told her it was more "modern."

Tonight was different.

I got a major promotion at work. I was made the lead designer on a huge national campaign. My boss insisted on a celebratory dinner. It was the first time in seven years I wasn't going to be home by five.

I texted Olivia.

"Team dinner tonight. Celebrating a promotion. I'll be late."

No reply. That was normal.

The dinner was great. My colleagues clapped me on the back. They called me a genius. For a few hours, I felt like the old me, the one who had dreams before they were replaced by obligations.

I got home around ten. The lights in the big house were on. I walked up to the front door and entered the code for the smart lock.

Access Denied.

I tried again. Same result.

They had changed the code.

I stood there for a moment, the cold night air seeping into my suit jacket. I knocked on the door.

"Olivia? Lily? It's me."

I heard footsteps inside. Then, through the frosted glass panel beside the door, I saw a small shadow. It was Lily. She stood there for a moment, then walked away.

She didn't open the door.

I knocked again, harder this time.

"Lily, open the door. It's cold out here."

Nothing. The shadow was gone.

I called Olivia's phone. It went straight to voicemail. I called the house line. It rang and rang until the machine picked up.

A profound coldness, one that had nothing to do with the weather, settled deep in my bones. It wasn't just about being locked out. It was about what it meant. After seven years of perfect service, one small deviation, and I was literally cast aside.

I didn't knock again. I didn't shout.

I walked over to the porch swing, sat down, and waited for the sun to rise.

The next morning, I didn' t go inside. I walked to my car, drove to a diner, and called a divorce lawyer.

By the time Olivia finally called me, around noon, I was already at the lawyer' s office.

"Where are you, Ethan? Lily missed her ride to school, and I have a meeting." Her voice was annoyed, not worried.

"I'm with my lawyer," I said calmly. "I'm filing for divorce."

There was a silence on the other end. Then, a bewildered laugh.

"A divorce? Are you serious? Because you had to spend one night outside? Is that really worth it?"

I thought about the seven years. The five o'clock deadlines. The endless cooking and cleaning. My abandoned art. My daughter who called me by my first name. The cold silence of the house. The shadow behind the glass.

"Absolutely," I said.

Her tone shifted, becoming sharp and authoritative. The tone she used when she wasn't getting her way.

"Fine. You can have your little tantrum. You can divorce me. But you can't take Lily. She's a Davies. She stays here."

I glanced at my lawyer, who gave me a cautious look. I smiled, a grim, tired smile.

"Don't worry," I told Olivia. "I'll waive my parental rights. You can have full custody."

I could almost hear her shock through the phone.

"And," I continued, "I quit the job you got for me. You can have the car, too. It's in your father's name anyway. Consider it all child support."

Through the phone, I heard a faint shuffling, and then Lily's voice, small and clear. "Does that mean he's not coming back?"

Olivia must have had me on speaker. I heard her shush the child. But I also heard the unmistakable sound of relief in Lily's voice. She didn't want me there either.

That was the final confirmation.

Olivia's confusion was palpable. "Ethan, what are you doing? If this is about last night, I'm sorry. I promise I won't change the lock code again."

Her promise meant nothing. The lock was just a symptom of the disease.

"It's too late for that, Olivia," I said. "The lawyer will send you the papers."

I hung up the phone.

A wave of something I hadn't felt in years washed over me. It felt like taking off a heavy, wet coat I didn't even realize I was wearing.

It felt like liberation.

I had been a graphic designer because Olivia' s father said it was a respectable, stable career. He had looked at my paintings, the ones I poured my soul into, and called them "a nice hobby."

He said, "A man needs to provide, Ethan. Not play with colors."

So I provided.

Olivia never worked. She had "projects." Charity luncheons, gallery openings, redecorating the house every six months. She treated me like a well-dressed butler, introducing me to her friends as "my husband, Ethan," with a tone that suggested she had picked me out of a bargain bin.

She complained if my cooking was a minute late but would think nothing of calling at six to say she was out with friends and wouldn't be home for dinner. I was expected to wait, to be available. She was not.

It was a thousand small cuts.

The divorce was quick. I gave them everything they wanted. The house, the savings account I had contributed to, my parental rights. I walked out of the courthouse with nothing but the clothes on my back and a small duffel bag.

Her lawyer looked at my lawyer with pity. "He's getting railroaded."

My lawyer just shook his head. "He says this is what he wants."

As I left, Olivia' s father pulled me aside.

"You're making a mistake, son," he said, his voice laced with patronizing concern. "You're throwing away a comfortable life."

"A comfortable cage is still a cage," I replied, and walked away without looking back.

I left the city that day. I got on a bus and watched the skyscrapers shrink in the distance. I didn't know where I was going, but I knew I was heading home.