Chapter 2

“Vanessa works late. I drive her home. What exactly is the problem?”

Grant sounded completely reasonable.

As if a married man regularly taking his assistant home after midnight—and staying inside her apartment for an hour or two—was perfectly normal.

I asked why he had never told me.

His expression darkened immediately.

“Are you interrogating me now, Evelyn?”

Then he turned the accusation on me.

He said checking his driving history was an invasion of privacy.

He called me controlling, paranoid, and jealous.

Vanessa, according to him, was only a hardworking young woman who didn’t deserve to be humiliated because his wife was insecure.

The next morning, he placed her directly under his supervision.

“If you don’t trust her abilities, I’ll personally oversee all her work from now on.”

He didn’t pull back after I objected.

He used my objection as an excuse to get even closer to her.

From then on, he stopped hiding his favoritism.

When the company attended land auctions, Vanessa was the only person he took with him.

At developer dinners, he seated her beside him and placed me at another table.

One night, someone finally leaned over and reminded him quietly, “Grant, your wife is still here.”

Grant frowned at me.

“Evelyn isn’t that petty.”

He knew exactly what he was doing.

If I stayed quiet, he could continue treating Vanessa like his partner.

If I objected, I proved I was petty.

We had a vicious argument when we got home.

Grant said I had embarrassed him and made everyone believe he had married a jealous, badly behaved woman.

Then he disappeared for four days to punish me.

He ignored every call and message until I apologized.

Only then did he come home—with several of his friends.

They sat in our living room and took turns explaining why I was the problem.

“Vanessa is just an employee.”

“Grant already has enough pressure at work. Why can’t you make things easier for him?”

“A marriage needs trust. No man could tolerate being questioned like this forever.”

Grant sat in the middle of the couch and let them tear me apart.

He never defended me.

When they were finished, he looked at me and asked, “Have you thought it through?”

For a while, I truly believed I was too sensitive.

Maybe Grant only respected Vanessa’s work.

Maybe if I stopped arguing, our marriage could go back to the way it had been.

Then came the third day of our latest fight.

I had acute gastritis and could barely stand.

Our doctor told me to go to the hospital immediately.

Grant saw the medication on the dining table.

He saw me come out of the bedroom with one hand pressed to my stomach and the other braced against the wall.

He still picked up his suitcase and left on a business trip with Vanessa.

The moment the door closed, something inside me went quiet.

I didn’t call him back.

I didn’t ask where he was going.

For the first time, I didn’t want an explanation.

I finally understood that the problem had never been whether I was patient enough or generous enough.

Grant needed me to be “jealous” because it gave him an excuse to punish me and choose Vanessa again.

Even if I had never found those navigation records, he would have found another reason to dine with her, drive her home, and take her on private trips.

And every time I objected, he would call me petty.

That afternoon, Grant sent Vanessa’s real estate proposal to me for review.

The land had a serious contamination risk, and the financing rate was far too high.

I wrote one clear recommendation in the report:

DO NOT INVEST.

Grant deleted it and approved the deal.

He expected me to storm into the office the moment I found out.

I did nothing.

A week later, he and Vanessa returned.

The hotel auction had lasted two days.

They spent the remaining five at the coast—dining out, sailing on a yacht, and attending a private wine tasting together.

After they came back, they still had lunch together, played golf, and toured new development sites.

On the surface, nothing had changed.

But they were closer now.

I could feel it.

It no longer mattered.

Three years of marriage was enough.

That night, I had just finished another risk report for Harbor Point when my phone lit up.

Vanessa had posted a new photo.

She was standing on the terrace of a reservation-only rooftop restaurant. Two glasses of champagne sat on the table behind her.

She was wearing Grant’s black coat.

Grant stood close, wrapping a scarf around her neck.

Her caption read:

Someone always remembers that I get cold.

The comments came quickly.

Your boss treats you so well.

You and your boss look perfect together.

Grant liked the second comment.

Vanessa replied with a shy, laughing emoji.

In the past, I would have called him immediately.

Then he would have accused me of stalking Vanessa’s social media and starting another fight over nothing.

This time, I simply closed the app.

I emailed Grant the completed report, shut down my computer, and drove home alone.

His call came just as I entered the living room.

But when I answered, Vanessa spoke first.

“Evelyn, thank you for finishing the risk report for me. Grant said it was excellent. I’ll take you to dinner sometime.”

Before I could answer, Grant spoke in the background.

“Don’t thank her. That’s what she’s paid to do.”

Vanessa laughed.

“You’re awfully strict with your own wife.”

They laughed together.

It took Grant several more seconds to remember I was still on the phone.

“I’ll be home late. Go to bed. Don’t wait up.”

Then he hung up.

Whenever Grant said he would be late, I used to sit in the living room and wait for him.

Not tonight.

I went upstairs and packed my suitcase.

Three days remained before our divorce became final.