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Before that flight to Maui was confirmed, I'd mentioned countless times how I wanted to go on vacation with him. It wasn't until right before our sixth wedding anniversary that William finally booked two first-class tickets to Maui. I packed my bags with excitement, arranged everything, only to get a notification from the airline on the morning of our departure: the tickets had been canceled. I couldn't reach him on the phone, not even as the boarding gate closed. A few hours later, a video of William and his young ""VIP client"" holding hands on Waikiki Beach went viral on TikTok. I stood outside the terminal at Chicago O'Hare, in the sub-zero wind, and typed out the terms of our divorce agreement into my phone's notes with frozen fingers. The wind was brutal, but my heart was so completely frozen I couldn't feel a thing. … He reposted the viral video to his Instagram Story with a short statement: [Taking a much-needed break with a client who's been through a lot. Appreciate the privacy. 🙏] In the video, he smiled as he took a napkin from Vanessa, wiping away an açaí stain from the corner of her mouth with a look of doting affection I hadn't seen in years. I used to think that look was reserved only for me. In six years of marriage, I begged William countless times, but he always said the firm was too busy, that he had no time for me. Yet in the first year Vanessa was his client, he took her. That night, a polar vortex hit Chicago. A blizzard raged, and all flights were grounded. In the video, Hawaii was bright and sunny, the Pacific Ocean a stunning shade of blue. And I was trapped, stranded and alone in a paralyzed airport. I stood in the waiting area outside the terminal for a long time. My phone finally rang. It was William. His voice was casual, the sound of waves crashing in the background. ""The housekeeper said you're not home. Where'd you go so late?"" He paused, then added, ""I told you I'd be tied up this week. Don't go making this difficult."" Tied up? I watched the video of him and Vanessa on the beach, a chill running through my body. ""How are things over there? There's a blizzard in Chicago. Where are you?"" I said nothing. My silence must have annoyed him, because his voice turned impatient. ""What, you're just going to give me the silent treatment now?"" ""I'm at the airport."" Hearing those words, he paused, as if he finally remembered that today was the day we were supposed to fly to Maui together. ""Don't move. I'll have my driver come get you."" I didn't believe him, but my phone was about to die. The cold wind from Lake Michigan cut through my coat like a knife. I sat miserably on a bench by the curb, staring blankly at the falling snow. My phone battery only lasted two hours. William never messaged back before the screen went black. The last thing I saw was Vanessa's new Instagram post: ""While some people are stuck in the cold, I'm grateful for those who choose warmth. 🌺☀️ #Blessed #MentalHealthMatters"" The picture was a silhouette of him and her against a sunset. I laughed, suddenly feeling a sense of release I'd never felt before. Fine. I was stranded at the airport in a blizzard while he was with Vanessa, enjoying the tropical sun. I waited in the freezing wind all night, and he never contacted me again. I had spent six years of my marriage waiting for him to have a change of heart, even just once. But no one can wait for a lost ship at an airport. Enough time had passed. I was done waiting. 2:2 I eventually passed out from hypothermia in the blizzard and was taken to the emergency room. After getting an IV drip and a shot for my fever, I forced myself to go to the law firm. I heard William had already come back while I was unreachable. He'd caught the earliest flight back as soon as the blizzard let up. The moment I sat down in my cubicle, Benjamin, who specialized in divorce litigation, rolled his chair over. ""Samantha, you finally showed up. The big boss has been looking for you everywhere the past few days. He was furious."" I gave a faint smile. He was just scared I'd actually freeze to death in the blizzard, which would be hard to explain to the police and the media. After six years of marriage, we knew each other too well. If he cared about me even a little, he wouldn't have paraded Vanessa in front of me so openly, even bringing her to the firm to spite me. During lunch, William cornered me in the breakroom. ""What's your problem? I've been calling you for days and you haven't picked up."" I didn't speak, just went about making my coffee. ""How long are you going to keep this up?"" William grabbed my wrist, his voice low. ""I don't want to talk about this at the office, but this behavior is very unprofessional."" Thinking of the Marriage Settlement Agreement I'd printed out this morning, I didn't argue with him like I usually would. ""Don't worry, it won't happen again."" Because there wouldn't be a next time. Once we were divorced, we'd have nothing to do with each other. William paused, clearly not used to my compliance, and his tone softened slightly. ""Let's get steak tonight."" I didn't answer. He paused again, then said, ""I just passed by your desk and saw you organizing files for a divorce case."" ""Samantha, you're a criminal defense attorney. When did you start taking family court cases?"" I smiled. ""I haven't asked you where you've been the last few days, so don't ask me about my caseload."" He studied me for a moment, then lowered his voice. ""If you're taking side work, at least be discreet about it. Don't let the other partners see."" He thought the divorce agreement was a side job I'd taken for extra cash. I just smiled and didn't explain. After work, I received an OpenTable reservation confirmation from William. Anyone could see it was his way of compensating me. But it was too late. I put the printed agreement in my briefcase and got ready to meet him. Walking out of the office building, I saw Vanessa right away. She was wearing a Reformation wrap coat, clearly waiting for someone too. William's black Lincoln sedan glided past me and pulled up right beside her. Right in front of my eyes, Vanessa got into the car. She got the man she was waiting for. And I was, once again, the one left behind. But it didn't matter. I wouldn't be waiting anymore. I watched the taillights disappear into traffic. A moment later, a text from William came through. He was just telling me to wait for him in the lobby, that he had a last-minute meeting. I turned off my phone and hailed my own Uber to the restaurant. ""No, I'm not waiting for anyone. It's just me,"" I told the host. When I ordered, I specifically chose the spicy Cajun-style seafood. In the past, I'd always order something bland here, worried about affecting his performance the next day. This time, I didn't care about him. He wasn't coming anyway. Sure enough, when I left the restaurant at ten o'clock, there was still no word from William. Six years. In the list of his life's priorities, I was always last. 3:3 When I got back to our apartment on the Gold Coast, the living room light was on. William was sitting on the sofa. For six years, William had a lot of work events, and it was always me sitting in the living room, waiting for him with that single floor lamp on. When we first got married, he used to feel guilty that I waited up for him. Back then, I could still see a glimmer of tenderness in his eyes. It's a shame that tenderness only lasted for a year. And I held on to that faint memory for five more years. Later, William started to complain about me waiting up, accusing me of trying to meddle in his social life. He called me an insecure control freak. But I remembered clearly, during his years as a junior partner, he would always ask me to run interference and fend off drinks for him at important partner dinners. He used to call me his best teammate. I shook my head, pulling myself out of the memory. William's gaze was as cold as the ice on Lake Michigan. ""Samantha, you were almost out all night again."" I just grunted in response, taking off my heels. William narrowed his eyes, surprised by my cold reaction. ""Do you have any idea what day it is?"" I paused for a second. It was our sixth wedding anniversary. If things had gone as planned, we would be at the Waldorf Astoria in Maui right now. I had already contacted a friend there to book the best ocean-view restaurant. I thought we would have an unforgettable night. But he chose to take Vanessa instead. All my preparations had become a joke. ""I didn't prepare anything,"" I said softly. After all, we were about to sign divorce papers. Playing the part of a loving couple felt ridiculous. A flash of annoyance crossed William's face. He casually handed me a blue velvet box. ""Saw this on my way home. Just take a look."" I wasn't surprised. After standing me up so many times, according to his elite logic, he had to compensate with material things to balance the scales. That was William. He understood social norms, knew what was right and wrong. But for Vanessa, he would still choose the path that invited moral judgment. Maybe this was his way of expressing ""true love."" I took the gift box and tossed it onto the console table by the door. ""Thanks, I guess."" My polite response made his eyes flicker. He seemed completely unable to understand my detachment. ""I didn't make it tonight because something urgent came up with Vanessa..."" I cut him off. ""I don't need an explanation."" I genuinely didn't care, but William got annoyed and stood up. ""Are you ever going to let it go? Always making everything about you. Vanessa's case is being handled by our firm, and her father is a VIP client. I can't just ignore her, can I?"" I looked down, rummaging through my bag for the divorce agreement, and kept talking. ""Taking on a case that leads to a Hawaiian vacation and becoming TikTok's model couple. Attorney William's client care is truly dedicated."" William's brow furrowed, his face instantly darkening. It was an undeniable fact, so he could only stare at me with that usual, condescending look. He wanted me to back down and admit I was wrong. In the past, all he had to do was stay silent, and I would immediately start wondering if I had done something wrong, if I wasn't being considerate enough. I never questioned William's judgment. Deep down, I always thought it was because I wasn't good enough. But now, I just quietly kept searching for the agreement. There was no doubt William was a legal elite, but he didn't represent the truth. Stripped of that halo, he was just a vulgar and selfish man. It was my love that had gilded him, that had placed him on a pedestal. Now, the halo was shattered. I couldn't find the agreement. I probably left it at the restaurant. What a shame. ""You looking for something?"" William shifted, leaning closer to me. I pushed him away without another word. That night, I took a pillow and moved into the guest room. And for the first time in a long time, despite my chronic insomnia, I slept soundly."

No. 36 is shipping to members now—and it might be the most surprising issue we've ever made. There's a reason we keep saying that.

At my boyfriend Patrick's proposal dinner, his childhood best friend, Becky, took the engagement ring and slipped it onto her own finger. In front of everyone. She raised her hand beneath the chandelier, and the diamond caught the light. ""Oh my God, Edward,"" she said, laughing softly. ""Look. It's perfect. Like it was made just for me."" Then she turned to me. The little smile on her face said everything. The private dining room went silent. Someone froze with a champagne flute halfway to their mouth. Someone else stared at Patrick like they were waiting for him to fix it. Everyone was waiting for me to break. To cry. To make a scene. To run out looking like the humiliated girlfriend who had just lost the man she loved in front of a room full of people. After all, that was what I had done for six years. I had swallowed every insult. Made room for every excuse. Stepped aside every time Becky needed Patrick more than I did. Classic Ava. The perfect doormat. Patrick looked at me, then at Becky. For one second, I thought he might finally say the right thing. Instead, he sighed. ""Becky's just joking,"" he said. ""Don't make it a big deal, okay?"" Something inside me went cold. Not cracked. Not hurt. Dead. Then I laughed. Everyone stared. I walked over, took Becky's ringed hand, and placed it back into Patrick's palm. ""You know what?"" I said. ""She's right."" Becky's smile faltered. ""The ring suits her better."" I looked at both of them and smiled. ""You two are perfect for each other."" Patrick's face changed. ""Ava—"" ""I'm out,"" I said. ""I wish you both a lifetime of happiness."" Then I turned and walked away. I didn't look back when Patrick called my name. I didn't care about the gasps behind me. And I definitely didn't care when the whispers started spreading through the room. None of them knew the truth. I had practically gift-wrapped that proposal for the two of them. The end had started three nights earlier. Chicago was buried under a freak snowstorm, and the temperature had dropped to minus four. I dragged my suitcase through O'Hare, fingers numb, cheeks burning from the cold. Patrick had promised to pick me up. He was not there. I called him. Straight to voicemail. ""Hey, it's Patrick. Leave a message."" I tried Uber. No drivers available. I tried Lyft. Same thing. The airport was packed with stranded travelers, wet coats, crying children, and people arguing with airline staff. I stood near the pickup area for three hours, refreshing the app until my phone battery turned red. Patrick never called back. Later, I saw Becky's Instagram Story. [When I'm sick, you're the only one who never complains about staying with me. 💕] The photo showed a woman's hand hooked up to an IV. Beside it was a man's hand peeling an apple. No face. No tag. But I knew that watch. A Tag Heuer. I had bought it for Patrick's birthday after saving for three months, skipping lunches and cutting every unnecessary expense. When I saw the photo, my first reaction was not anger. It was worse. I felt nothing. No shock. No pain. Not even jealousy. Just a tired, empty quiet. Like I had been knocking on the same locked door for years and finally realized I no longer wanted anyone to open it. It was not the first time Patrick had abandoned me for Becky. On my birthday, he left before I cut the cake because Becky called him crying. He did not come home that night. The month before that, my team landed a major client. Patrick promised to take me out to celebrate. On the way to the restaurant, Becky called. He pulled over, told me it was an emergency, and drove off. It was raining. I stood on the side of the road in heels, soaked through, hungry and shivering, waiting an hour for a ride. That cold turned into pneumonia. I spent several hours in the ER before the doctors put me on a week of IV antibiotics. Patrick never visited. Later, I found out Becky had been ""emotionally overwhelmed,"" so he had flown with her to Santa Barbara to help her clear her head. And Valentine's Day? He left me alone in a candlelit restaurant for four hours while he searched the city for Becky's missing cat. The waitress kept coming by. ""Would you like to order while you wait?"" I told her I was waiting for someone. An hour later, she asked again. Two hours later, she said gently, ""Honey, maybe you should go home."" I should have. I should have gone home long before that night. But being ignored over and over does something to you. At first, it hurts. Then it humiliates you. Then, one day, it stops hurting at all. That was how I knew I was done. Because on the coldest night of my life, standing in an airport with Becky's photo glowing on my screen, I did not cry. I only thought: Six years. I had wasted six years loving a man who never once chose me first. 2:2 By the time I got home, it was nearly midnight. I was frozen through, dressed far too lightly for the storm, and already feeling sick. I found some cold medicine, swallowed it with cold water, and collapsed into bed. Sleep came in broken pieces. My body burned. My head pounded. My throat felt like it had been scraped raw. Sometime after dawn, a heavy sound at the door jolted me awake. I forced my eyes open. Patrick stood in the bedroom doorway, his face dark with anger. ""Seriously, Ava?"" he snapped. ""You came home and didn't even call me? I went all the way to the airport for nothing."" For a moment, I just stared at him. Then I looked past him at the pale morning light. A laugh slipped out of me. Small. Bitter. ""Your phone went straight to voicemail,"" I said. ""And it's morning now. Did you honestly expect me to wait at the airport for ten hours?"" The worst part was, I had done worse before. I had waited longer. For less. Patrick's expression stiffened. He walked closer to the bed, his anger shifting into irritation. ""Becky had acute gastroenteritis last night,"" he said. ""I had to—"" I almost laughed again. If Patrick had cared even a little, he would have noticed I was sick. My face was burning. My voice barely sounded human. I was shaking under the blankets. But he noticed none of it. Because when someone does not care, they do not see you. They only see what they expect you to give. That realization settled in my chest, colder than the storm outside. I cut him off. ""You don't have to explain,"" I said. ""I don't care."" Patrick froze. I had never spoken to him like that before. Not once. Then his face twisted with rage. He kicked the nightstand so hard the lamp jumped. ""Fine,"" he said through clenched teeth. ""If that's how you want to act, remember today, Ava."" He had broken his promise. He had left me stranded in a snowstorm. He had spent the night with another woman. And somehow, I was the one being punished. Patrick stormed out without looking back. The room spun. Cold sweat soaked my skin. The walls blurred. My body felt both burning and frozen. I knew I needed a doctor. I forced myself out of bed, pulled on a coat, and went downstairs. Outside, the snow was still falling hard. The street was white and silent. I tried to call a ride, but no drivers were available. Again. I stood by the curb, shivering so hard my teeth hurt. That was when Patrick came downstairs. His face was still sour. ""Get in,"" he said coldly. ""I'll drive you to work."" My pride wanted to refuse. My body couldn't afford it. So I got in. The car smelled faintly of Becky's perfume. Patrick drove with both hands on the wheel, jaw tight, as if I were the inconvenience. Then he started again. ""God, Ava. Becky is twenty-four. Why do you have to make everything so dramatic?"" I stared out the window. ""If something were really going on between us, do you think I'd still be here?"" he continued. ""You need to work on your attitude. Honestly, I'm probably the only person who can put up with you."" My throat burned too much to answer. Becky was only six months younger than me. Six months. But in Patrick's mind, she was always the fragile girl who needed protecting. And I was always the difficult woman who should know better. There was no logic in it. There never had been. I had known for years where his heart leaned. But knowing did not make it hurt less. Six years. I had given six years to a man who only looked at me when Becky was not in the room. And for the first time, I finally understood something. Love was not supposed to feel like begging for leftovers. 3:3 Patrick kept talking. I stopped listening. I leaned back against the seat and closed my eyes, every breath scraping against my throat. He did not notice my fever. Did not notice the sweat at my temples. Did not notice the way I was gripping the edge of my coat just to stay upright. He only kept driving and lecturing me. Becky was innocent. I was unreasonable. Becky was fragile. I was dramatic. Becky needed understanding. I needed to fix my attitude. Then his phone rang. He answered on Bluetooth. Becky's trembling voice filled the car. ""Patrick… I fell. It hurts so much. I can't move."" Everything about him changed. His shoulders tightened. His voice softened. ""Where are you? Don't move. I'm coming."" Becky lived more than ten miles away. The emergency room I needed was in the opposite direction. I knew what was about to happen before he even touched the turn signal. He was going to leave me again. My voice came out hoarse. ""Becky, if you really can't move, call 911. They'll get to you faster."" A small, wounded sob came through the speaker. ""Oh… am I interrupting you two? Ava, I'm sorry. I just… I'm really scared."" Patrick's face hardened at once. ""Can you have a little compassion?"" he snapped. ""You know what she's been through."" I stared at him. My skin was burning. My body was shaking. Every swallow felt like glass. ""Patrick,"" I said, forcing each word out, ""I'm sick. I feel terrible. Please take me to the ER first."" He did not even look at me. Not really. In his mind, I was not sick. I was competing. ""Not right now,"" he said. ""Becky needs me."" ""I'm not—"" A violent cough tore through my chest and cut me off. By the time I could breathe again, he had already pulled over. Then he unlocked the doors. ""Get out."" I froze. ""What?"" ""You heard me."" His voice was flat now. Cold. ""I'm not playing this game with you. Becky is hurt, and you're using this to get attention."" The contrast was almost unreal. Becky got tenderness. I got judgment. Becky got his panic. I got the side of the road. My fingers fumbled with the seat belt, but I was shaking too badly to press the release. Patrick sighed like I was wasting his time. He leaned across me, clicked it open, and pushed my door wide. ""Don't make this harder than it needs to be."" Then he checked his watch. That was the part that stayed with me. Not the cold. Not the snow. Not even the humiliation. That quick glance at his watch. Like abandoning me in a blizzard while I was burning with fever was just another delay in his schedule. ""I'll text you later,"" he said. Then he put the car in reverse. I stumbled out into the snow. It was deep enough to swallow my boots. Before I could say another word, Patrick drove away. His taillights vanished into the white blur of the storm. For a few seconds, I stood there in the falling snow, dizzy, feverish, and too weak to move. Then my knees gave out. As the world tilted and went dark, one thought cut through everything. I was done. Completely done with Patrick Hayes. 4:4 I did not know how long I had been unconscious. When I opened my eyes, my body was damp with sweat and an IV was taped to my arm. The room smelled like antiseptic. A hospital. For a moment, I stared at the ceiling, trying to understand how I had gotten there. Then the door opened. The man standing there made me freeze. Julian Reed. My company's CEO. ""Julian?"" My voice came out rough. ""What are you doing here?"" He walked in with a gentle smile. ""I was driving back from a client dinner and saw you collapsed in the snow."" His eyes softened. ""How are you feeling?"" ""Better,"" I said automatically. ""Thank you."" I tried to sit up. Julian moved at once. ""Don't."" He adjusted the pillow behind me. ""The doctor said you need rest."" That kind of care was so unfamiliar that I did not know what to do with it. Then he lifted a takeout bag. ""I brought soup. Chicken noodle. Nothing fancy, but it's warm."" He opened the container and set it on the table beside the bed. The smell rose with the steam. Simple. Warm. Comforting. I was painfully hungry, so I did not pretend otherwise. ""Thank you,"" I said, picking up the spoon. The first mouthful sent warmth through my chest. For the first time since O'Hare, my body stopped shaking. Julian sat beside the bed while I ate, quiet and patient. He did not fuss. Did not ask invasive questions. Did not make me explain why I had been alone in a snowstorm. That almost made it worse. Kindness, when you are no longer used to it, can feel unbearable. After I finished the soup, I set the spoon down. ""Julian, you've already done so much. You must have work to get back to."" He waved that off. ""Nothing that can't wait."" ""But—"" ""Ava."" His tone was still gentle, but firm. ""There's a blizzard outside. You were unconscious in the snow. I'm not leaving you alone tonight."" I looked away. I did not know why my throat tightened. Maybe because Patrick had left me on the side of the road without hesitation. And Julian, who owed me nothing, had stayed. I checked the time. Ten at night. I had been unconscious for more than ten hours. Exhaustion dragged at me again. My eyelids grew heavy no matter how hard I tried to keep them open. Julian noticed. He stood, turned off the harsh overhead light, and left only the small bedside lamp glowing. ""Sleep,"" he said. ""I'll be right here."" That time, I slept deeply. In the morning, my phone woke me. I reached for it, still half asleep. Patrick's voice came through the line before I could say anything. ""Becky stayed at the hospital overnight. She's doing better now."" I stared at the ceiling. ""She wants your chicken soup,"" he continued. ""Make some and bring it over. Extra vegetables."" For a second, I genuinely could not process the words. He had left me sick in a snowstorm. He had spent the night at the hospital with Becky. And now he wanted me to cook for her. Like I was staff. Like I existed to make his guilt easier to manage. I hung up. He called again. I turned off my phone. The room went quiet. Only then did I remember Julian. I turned toward the sofa. It was empty. Relief slipped through me. Good. At least he had not heard that. At least he had not seen how pathetic my life had become. The thought had barely formed when the door opened. Julian walked in carrying a paper bag and two coffees. ""Best bagels in the city,"" he said, setting them on the table. ""Or at least the best ones within walking distance of the hospital."" I blinked at him. He smiled. ""And coffee. The doctor said you need food, fluids, and rest. I'm adding caffeine because I'm not a monster."" Despite myself, I laughed softly. The sound surprised me. As I ate the warm bagel and drank the coffee, my throat tightened again. The man I had loved for six years was somewhere else, taking care of another woman and asking me to cook for them. And the man I barely knew had pulled me out of the snow, stayed all night, and brought me breakfast. The irony should have been funny. It wasn't. It hurt. But beneath that hurt, something else stirred. A small, fragile realization. Maybe love was not supposed to feel like begging. Maybe being cared for should not feel shocking. Maybe the problem had never been that I asked for too much. Maybe I had spent six years accepting far too little. 5:5 The man I had loved for six years had ignored me while he stayed beside another woman. If Julian had not happened to drive by, would I have stayed in that snow until morning? Would I have woken up at all? The thought made my stomach twist. I had already taken too much of his time. After breakfast, I set the coffee down and said, ""Julian, I'm okay now. You should go. You probably didn't sleep much last night."" He looked at me carefully. ""Are you sure?"" ""Yes."" ""I'm not sure I believe you."" His tone was gentle, but firm. ""You're one of the best people in my company. As your boss, I'd look pretty terrible abandoning a sick employee in the hospital."" I gave him a weak smile. ""I don't think that's part of your job description."" ""It is today."" Julian refused to leave. And the more he insisted on staying, the more embarrassed I felt. I was better now. At least well enough to stand. I did not want my CEO sitting in a hospital room watching me recover from a fever while my personal life collapsed in public. So I insisted on being discharged. Julian tried to talk me out of it. I refused. Finally, he sighed. ""All right. But I'm driving you home. That part isn't negotiable."" He went to handle the paperwork while I packed my things. In the bathroom mirror, I finally saw myself. Messy hair. Pale face. Dark circles under my eyes. I looked like someone had dragged me out of a snowbank. Which, technically, was true. Everyone at the company knew Julian Anderson had high standards. He expected sharp work, clean presentations, and professionalism from everyone around him. And here I was, ghost-pale and humiliatingly exposed, after spending an entire night in the same hospital room as him. He was too polite to say anything. But I couldn't help wondering what he thought of me. My face burned. I just wanted to leave. The moment I stepped into the hallway, I ran into Patrick. He was walking toward me with Becky leaning heavily against him. She had one arm around his waist and most of her weight pressed into his side, as if she might collapse without him. Patrick stopped when he saw me. For one second, surprise flashed across his face. Then he frowned. ""You're only getting here now?"" he asked. ""Where's the soup I asked you to make?"" Becky saw me and immediately pressed closer to him. A quiet little claim. I looked at Patrick. Then at Becky. Then back at Patrick. ""I didn't make it."" His face darkened. ""Why not?"" I said nothing. ""God, Ava."" His voice rose. ""You ignored my calls, disappeared all night, and now you can't even do one simple thing I asked?"" A hot, sharp anger burned through me. Before I could answer, a cough tore through my throat. My body reminded me, cruelly, that I was still sick. Then Julian's voice came from beside me. ""If you want soup, make it yourself."" Patrick turned. The second he recognized Julian, his expression stiffened. Everyone in Chicago's tech world knew Julian Anderson. Patrick cleared his throat, suddenly awkward. ""I just thought Ava wasn't busy."" Julian's gaze did not move. ""How would you know?"" Patrick froze. ""If your eyes work,"" Julian said calmly, ""you should be able to see she's unwell."" Only then did Patrick look at me properly. Really look. His eyes moved over my pale face, my dry lips, the hospital bracelet around my wrist. ""Ava,"" he said slowly, ""what happened to you?"" Julian answered before I could. ""She collapsed in the snow yesterday morning. High fever. She spent the night here."" Patrick's face changed. ""You were actually sick?"" he asked. ""I thought you were just—"" I didn't wait for the rest. The humiliation of having my private life laid bare in front of my boss was already enough. I walked around Patrick and kept going. ""Ava, wait."" He reached for my arm. Before his fingers could touch me, Becky let out a weak little moan. ""Patrick…"" Her knees buckled slightly. ""I can't breathe. I feel awful."" She opened and closed her mouth, gasping dramatically, like a fish on dry land. Patrick's attention snapped back to her at once. He wrapped his arms around her and rushed toward the nearest doctor's station. I did not look back. I walked straight to the elevator. Julian followed. When the doors closed, he let out a quiet laugh. ""Impressive performance,"" he said. I looked at him. He raised one eyebrow. ""Not a good performance. Just a very committed one."" Despite everything, I almost smiled. Then the elevator carried us down. And for once, I let someone else stand beside me without asking what it would cost. 6:6 Patrick did not come home until evening. By then, I had eaten, showered, taken my medicine, and was ready to sleep. He pushed open the bedroom door with an expression I had seen too many times before. Half guilt. Half irritation. Fully expecting forgiveness. ""Ava, listen,"" he began. ""I really didn't know you were that sick. I thought you were just—"" ""I'm tired,"" I said. ""We'll talk tomorrow."" I pulled the blanket up to my chin. Patrick froze. For six years, this was not how our fights ended. Usually, he gave me the smallest hint of regret. A softer voice. A hand through his hair. A quiet ""Come on, don't be like this."" And I folded. Every time. Like a well-trained dog. Maybe because I had never really fought back, he thought I had no temper. Or worse, he thought I had no right to one. He stood beside the bed, staring at me. His face grew darker. Then he turned and slammed the door. Guest room. Of course. That was his favorite punishment. Silence. Distance. The cold little performance of a man waiting to be begged back. In the past, I would have followed. I would have apologized first. Softened my voice. Explained myself gently, even when I had done nothing wrong. Because I was afraid of losing him. But I had already lost him. I just had not admitted it yet. That night, I slept beautifully. My fever broke. My throat hurt less. For the first time in six years, Patrick's silent treatment did not keep me awake. The next morning, I got up, washed my face, and made myself breakfast. Eggs. Bacon. Avocado toast. Fresh orange juice. Coffee filled the kitchen. Pale winter sunlight cut through the windows. For once, the morning felt clean. I was sitting at the table, eating slowly, when I heard Patrick on the stairs. He entered the dining room and cleared his throat. I knew what he expected. His breakfast. The gluten-free one I had made every morning for six years. Patrick had severe celiac disease, so I had built an entire routine around him. Gluten-free oatmeal. Spinach omelets. Pancakes made with almond flour. Separate toaster. Separate cutting board. Separate everything. Even when we fought, I still cooked for him. It had become habit. Or maybe a leash. Today, there was only one plate on the table. Mine. Patrick stared at it. Then at me. ""You didn't make me breakfast?"" I took a bite of toast. ""You never liked my cooking anyway. Order something."" His face went red. ""You—"" I did not give him room to explode. I pushed back my chair, stood, and walked past him without looking in his direction. Then I went upstairs to get dressed. When I came back down, Patrick was still standing in the dining room. Waiting. For me to apologize. For me to explain. For me to hand him the ladder down from the pedestal he had built for himself. I walked straight to the front door. As my hand touched the knob, he finally moved. He grabbed my arm. ""Ava, are you seriously mad? Yesterday wasn't intentional. Becky—"" ""You don't have to explain."" I pulled my arm free. My voice was calm. Terrifyingly calm. ""I know. Becky has anxiety issues from college. She's been seeing a therapist. You grew up together. Her family helped you after that car accident. You feel responsible for her. You think you owe her. You think I should understand."" Patrick stared at me. I kept going. ""She's fragile. She's sensitive. She doesn't have anyone else. You're just being kind. I'm jealous. I'm dramatic. I make everything about myself."" His mouth opened. No sound came out. Every sentence was his. Every excuse he had thrown at me for six years. Only now, hearing it from my mouth, it sounded exactly as ugly as it was. ""I get it,"" I said. ""I understand everything."" Then I reached for the door again. ""I'm going to be late. Move."" Patrick stood there, stunned. For once, he had no speech ready. No accusation. No easy way to make me the problem. So I walked around him and left. Behind me, the house stayed silent. And for the first time, that silence belonged to him. 7:7 I did not expect Patrick to reach out first. I was in a meeting, walking the team through project data, when my phone buzzed inside my bag. I glanced at the screen. Patrick. I turned it face down. A few minutes later, a text came in. For once, the great Patrick Hayes actually apologized. Baby, I'm sorry. I should've been there when you were sick. That was on me. Let me make it up to you. Dinner tonight? A message like that would have ruined me once. I would have stared at it with shaking hands, heart racing, already forgiving him before I even typed back. Yes. Of course. Whatever you want. Now I read it once, locked my phone, and returned to the meeting. That was all. Work was brutal that day. Our team was preparing a consulting deck for a Fortune 500 client, and I was handling the market analysis and data visuals. By the time I left the office, it was already nine. I had forgotten about Patrick's dinner invitation entirely. When I got home, I changed into sweats and started making pasta. Halfway through boiling the water, my phone chimed. Becky had posted a new Instagram Story. When I need someone, you're always the first person I think of. And you never let me down. 💕 The photo showed a table at an upscale restaurant. No faces. Just two wine glasses, a candle, and the edge of a man's sleeve. Patrick's sleeve. His Rolex was visible too. I was still looking at the photo when Patrick called. I didn't answer. A second later, his message appeared. Becky's cat is missing. She's really scared. That cat means everything to her. Let me off the hook tonight, okay? I'll take you out another night. I'll make it up to you. I almost laughed. Let me off the hook. As if I had been sitting by the door in a dress, waiting for him. As if I had believed him. As if this night had mattered. It still stung. Not because I was disappointed. Because I was angry at myself for ever making him so important. What was I to Patrick? A backup plan? An on-call girlfriend? A woman expected to wait quietly at the bottom of his priority list until Becky no longer needed him? Patrick did not come home that night. This time, I did not call him twenty times. I did not text, Where are you? I did not check his location at three in the morning and pretend it meant nothing. I took a long bath with lavender oil, put on a seaweed face mask, wrapped myself in a robe, and watched two episodes of The Handmaid's Tale on the couch. Then I slept. Deeply. Peacefully. No anxiety. No insomnia. No waiting. The next afternoon, a huge bouquet of red roses arrived at my office. The card was written in Patrick's messy handwriting. Sweetheart, I'll pick you up after work tonight. Dress up for me. In the past, I had begged Patrick to pick me up from work. He almost never did. He had never sent flowers first. Never tried this hard first. I should have been thrilled. Instead, I stared at the roses and felt nothing. They were just flowers. Expensive, dramatic, meaningless flowers. My coworker Sarah rolled her chair toward my desk. ""Oh my God, Ava. Who sent those? They must have cost a fortune."" ""A mistake from my past,"" I said. ""I'm considering composting them."" Sarah froze. Then she burst out laughing. After work, I walked out of the office building and saw Patrick's black Tesla Model S waiting at the curb. He was leaning against the car in a camel cashmere coat. The sunset caught the sharp lines of his face, making him look like he belonged in a cologne ad. For one brief second, memory blurred the present. I saw him the way I had first seen him on Northwestern's campus. The golden boy from the business school. Rich. Brilliant. Admired. I had been the girl with student loans, dining hall shifts, and no parents left to call when life fell apart. Then Patrick noticed me. Smiled at me. Asked me to coffee. And I fell. For six years, I fell. I gave up graduate school. I gave up a job offer in New York. I handed him my time, my loyalty, my softness, my whole stupid heart. And somewhere along the way, I lost myself. Now Patrick stood in front of me, handsome as ever. And for the first time, that face did nothing to me. No flutter. No ache. No rush of hope. The spell was gone. Completely. 8:8 Patrick had no idea what I was thinking. He walked over with a smile and took my hand. ""Baby,"" he said warmly, ""I've got a surprise for you tonight."" I did not ask what it was. I no longer trusted his surprises. ""Mm."" He opened the back door for me. The back door. I noticed immediately. Then I saw why. Becky was sitting in the passenger seat. My seat. ""Becky gets carsick in the back,"" Patrick said, as if this were perfectly normal. ""You don't mind, right?"" The question was insulting. Not because he expected an answer. Because he didn't. This was not the first time Becky had taken my place beside him. I had lost count of how many times I had sat in the back of his car like a client being driven around while she laughed up front, one hand on the radio, one hand too close to his. I got into the back seat without a word. Becky looked at me through the rearview mirror. Her smile was soft. Her eyes were not. ""Ava, thanks for understanding,"" she said. ""You're always so considerate."" Considerate. Right. That was what people called you when they wanted you to keep swallowing disrespect with a smile. Patrick drove through the city, chatting with Becky like I was not there. Did she find her cat? Was work stressful? How was the new apartment? Had she eaten enough? Did she need help putting together the bookshelf he had mentioned? Question after question. Care after care. I sat in the back and watched Chicago slide past the window in streaks of gold and blue. Suddenly, the whole thing felt absurd. I was not even the third wheel. A third wheel was at least acknowledged. I was background noise. The car stopped outside an upscale restaurant on Michigan Avenue. I recognized it immediately. I had wanted to come here for years. I had mentioned it more than once. Every time, Patrick said it was overpriced. Unnecessary. A waste of money. But tonight we were here. Because Becky wanted to be. Inside, Patrick asked the host for a window table. The best one in the restaurant. Chicago glittered beyond the glass, all sharp lights and dark water. The moment we sat down, Becky ordered without even opening the menu. ""I'll have the filet mignon, medium rare. And the truffle risotto to start."" She glanced at Patrick. ""Should we get that Château Margaux you told me about?"" Patrick smiled. ""Of course."" Then he turned to me. ""What about you, Ava?"" I looked at the menu. Then at everything Becky had ordered. Everything expensive. Everything effortless. I closed the menu. ""Caesar salad. Water."" Patrick frowned. ""That's it?"" ""That's enough."" Becky tilted her head, all concern. ""Ava, are you still not feeling well? You should eat something nice. Patrick's treating tonight. Don't worry about the money."" Don't worry about the money. Easy for her to say. She was never the one paying for anything. I ignored her and took a slow sip of water. When the food arrived, Becky came alive. She praised the steak. Praised the wine. Praised Patrick for choosing such a beautiful place, even though we all knew he had chosen it for her. She laughed brightly at everything he said. Patrick looked pleased. Relaxed. Proud, even. And I sat across from them with my salad, invisible as glass. Halfway through the meal, Becky reached for her wine. Somehow, the glass tipped. Red wine spilled across her white dress. ""Oh no!"" she cried. ""My dress!"" Patrick moved instantly. ""Are you okay?"" ""It's ruined,"" Becky said, voice trembling. ""Patrick, what do I do?"" He grabbed a napkin and leaned toward her, carefully dabbing at the stain. Their heads nearly touched. Becky's hand settled on his wrist. Patrick did not move away. They looked intimate. Tender. Like a couple. I watched them for one long second. Then something inside me went very still. Enough. I set down my fork, picked up my purse, and stood. Patrick looked up. ""Ava? Where are you going?"" ""Bathroom."" I walked past the restroom. Past the hostess stand. Straight out the front door. The cold Chicago air hit my face. I called an Uber. Three minutes later, I was in the back seat, leaving the restaurant behind. My phone started vibrating almost immediately. Patrick calling. Patrick texting. Again. Again. Again. I turned the screen face down. Outside the window, the city lights blurred against the glass. For the first time in six years, I did not feel abandoned. I felt light. Because this time, I was the one who left. 9:9 Two hours later, Patrick showed up outside my apartment. ""Ava!"" His voice echoed through the hallway. ""Open the door. I know you're in there."" I stood on the other side and didn't move. ""Ava, please. We need to talk. You can't just leave like that."" Actually, I could. And I had. He kept knocking for nearly half an hour. Finally, my neighbor Mrs. Rodriguez opened her door. ""Young man,"" she said in her Spanish-accented English, ""it is almost midnight. Some of us have jobs."" The hallway went quiet. I heard Patrick let out a heavy breath. Then his footsteps faded. Only after the elevator doors closed did I pick up my phone. More than twenty messages. I didn't read them. I deleted every single one. Then I blocked him. It was over. Finally. The next morning, Becky called from an unknown number. I almost ignored it. Curiosity won. ""Ava,"" she snapped the second I answered. ""You think you're so clever, don't you? Walking out like that? Making Patrick worry all night?"" I nearly laughed. ""Worry is an interesting word coming from you."" ""Listen to me,"" Becky hissed. ""Patrick is mine. He always has been. You were just a placeholder. Someone to keep him warm until I was ready."" ""Then congratulations,"" I said. ""He's all yours."" A sharp silence. ""I don't want him anymore,"" I added. ""You're lying,"" she screamed. ""You were obsessed with him for six years. There's no way you can just—"" I hung up. Then I blocked that number too. The worst part was, she was not entirely wrong. I had been obsessed with Patrick. For six long, humiliating years. But not anymore. That afternoon, Julian asked me to come to his office. I felt uneasy as I walked in. He had spent the night with me at the hospital only two days ago. I did not know whether that counted as crossing a line, or whether I had become the kind of employee people whispered about. But Julian only smiled and motioned for me to sit. ""How are you feeling?"" ""Much better,"" I said. ""Thank you again. For everything."" ""No need."" He leaned back in his chair. ""I wanted to talk to you about the Paris project."" I straightened at once. The Paris project was one of the biggest engagements our company had landed all year—a digital transformation strategy for a French luxury group. High-profile. High-pressure. Career-changing, if done right. ""I want you to lead the team,"" Julian said. I stared at him. ""You'll be in Paris for six weeks,"" he continued. ""Most of the client work needs to happen on-site. Can you handle it?"" Six weeks in Paris. Six weeks away from Chicago. Away from Patrick. Away from the apartment, the memories, the endless noise of that relationship dying. ""Yes,"" I said without hesitation. ""When do we leave?"" ""Next Monday."" Julian smiled. ""I'll be going too. Their board wants the initial strategy sessions in person."" So it would be me and Julian. In Paris. For six weeks. The old Ava would have panicked. She would have wondered what Patrick would say. She would have asked permission without calling it permission. She might even have turned down the opportunity just to avoid a fight. But that version of me was gone. ""I'll start preparing the presentation materials today,"" I said. Julian's smile deepened. ""That's what I hoped you'd say."""