A second later, his expression shifted into blame.

“I forgot. Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

“It’s not like there’s nothing else you can eat. There’s beef carpaccio right there.”

I didn’t eat raw meat either.

Julian used to know that. I didn’t know when he had stopped caring to remember anything about me at all.

I sat there and couldn’t think of a single reason to stay.

I stood up and walked out.

Behind me came Chloe’s voice, all sweet concern: “Is Claire okay?”

Julian barely lowered his voice, not even bothering to hide his irritation. “She does this every time. Always has to kill the mood. Just ignore her. Let’s eat.”

I walked out of the restaurant alone.

This time, I was done pretending.

The first thing I did was send my resignation email. Then I started packing.

I began with the study. Julian’s work kept him at the office, so he never used this room. The books, the paintings, the notes, all mine.

I was halfway through when Julian came home.

The smile he came in with vanished the second he saw me.

“Claire, what is wrong with you? It’s a holiday, and all you’ve done since this morning is pick fights.”

“Are you just trying to make everyone miserable today?”

Unbelievable.

Even now, standing in the doorway and watching me pack, he was still making me the problem. Still saying I was the one ruining things.

I didn’t have the energy to argue.

“Julian, let’s get a divorce.”

The words had barely left my mouth when his phone rang.

Chloe’s ringtone. He’d set a custom one for her, some bright, bouncy instrumental track. Every other call came through on the factory default. He always said he was too lazy to bother with ringtones.

But Chloe got one.

In three years of marriage, he’d gone through three phones. And every single time, the first thing he did with a new one was reassign that exact ringtone to her number.

I asked him about it once. He said it was just a song he’d had since college. Old habit.

I found out later it had always been hers.

He picked up without a second’s hesitation.

I couldn’t hear what she said, but he was already turning toward the door.

“Don’t worry. I’m on my way.”

The door slammed behind him.

He didn’t hear me ask for a divorce. Or maybe he did, and he just didn’t care.

I stood in the empty living room and let it land.

Maybe this marriage had been wrong from the start.

The ringtone that had only ever been hers. The shipping address he never once changed. Every gift, every package, every small thing meant for me or my parents had been rerouted to Chloe like that was where it had always belonged.

And I had blinded myself to it.

And I kept waiting. Kept telling myself that one day he’d notice. He’d wake up. He’d change.

Nothing ever changed.

Three years of my life. Gone. And I was the only one who didn’t see it.

I finished packing the study, showered, and went to bed.

It was almost one in the morning when Julian finally texted.

[Chlo-Chlo had an emergency. Not coming home tonight.]

I didn’t reply. I locked my phone, closed my eyes, and fell asleep.

The next morning, I started packing the clothes and toiletries.

I hadn’t realized how little I actually owned until I tried to pack everything. Three years of packages rerouted to Chloe’s apartment had quietly hollowed out my life.

And I’d let it happen. Out of stubborn, wounded pride, I’d refused to replace anything he sent to her.

Matching slippers he’d ordered for us, gone to Chloe’s and never replaced. Matching loungewear, same. Little things I’d picked out on a whim, planters and knickknacks that caught my eye, all of it vanished into her apartment while I told myself I wouldn’t be the one to buy them twice.

The two electric toothbrushes on the bathroom counter were the perfect example.

Ugly. Barely functional. Identical drugstore models.

When we first got married, I spent weeks researching the perfect electric toothbrush, great features, sleek design. I was about to order when Julian said he’d take care of it.

It went to Chloe’s. Obviously.

I asked him to get it back. He refused. So out of pure spite, I walked into the nearest store and grabbed two of the cheapest ones on the shelf. I stuck a waterproof sticker on mine so we could tell them apart.

And I refused to buy better ones. On principle.

I told myself that every morning, when he picked up that cheap, ugly toothbrush, he’d notice. He’d feel guilty. He’d remember why we had them and finally buy the ones I actually wanted.

That toothbrush model had been discontinued and replaced three times over. He never noticed.

We were still using them.

I looked at the two toothbrushes sitting side by side on the sink. I swept them both into the trash.

I was almost done packing when Julian called.

“That bonus I told you about came through. My team is making me take everyone out to dinner to celebrate. You should come. I’ll text you the address.”

I was about to say no.

Then he added, “Mom and Dad are coming too. Don’t be late.”

I paused. Swallowed the refusal.

If I was really going through with the divorce, I owed his parents a conversation. Face to face.

The movers came. I watched them load the last box and sent everything to my parents’ place. I called my mom, told her boxes were on the way, and that I’d explain everything when I got there.

Then I stood in the doorway and looked back at the apartment one last time.

Three years in this place.

I closed the door and didn’t look back.