Chapter 1

A flash of irritation crossed Ashton Clark's eyes. "Sylvia, enough already. Bringing this junk to the office only disrupts my work."

In the past, those words would make me bow my head and apologize instantly.

I would have carefully set the chowder down, then retreated to the corner to wait for him to finish it.

But that day, I just stood there and stared at the elegant lunchbox sitting in the trash cart.

It was pink, adorned with floral prints and a bow. It was clearly made with love.

The cleaning lady sighed and pushed her cart away. Before she left, she shot me a look filled with pure pity.

"Sylvia, what are you daydreaming about?"

Ashton finally looked up at me. But it wasn't out of concern. It was out of sheer impatience.

I twisted the cap tight on my thermos and turned toward the door.

"Sylvia Duncan." His voice carried a sharp edge of warning.

This trick used to work every single time.

I would stop, turn around, smile, and say, "Alright, alright, get back to work."

But that day, I didn't stop. Once I reached my desk, I unplugged my flash drive, shut down my computer, and clocked out before heading to the elevator.

Just then, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Ashton.

"Come back and clean up my desk. On your way out, print the materials for tomorrow's meeting."

After reading it, I locked my screen.

The night wind blew hard as I stepped out of the office building.

As I waited at the crosswalk for the traffic light, I opened WhatsApp.

Next to the name "Ashton" was a bracketed note—"Restock his stomach medicine on Wednesdays".

I deleted the note and unpinned his chat.

Once it was done, my phone felt lighter in my hand.

When I got back to our shared apartment, the living room was pitch black.

I walked straight to the guest bedroom and locked the door behind me.

I used to sleep in the master bedroom, warming up the sheets before Ashton got home.

When he ran late, I would fill a hot water bottle and place it on his side of the bed.

When he was slow to text back, I checked my phone every ten minutes.

That night, I closed my eyes within three minutes of lying down. I didn't wait for his messages or set alarms to remind myself to make him breakfast.

I slept incredibly soundly that night.

At 2:00 am, my phone lit up repeatedly. But I just rolled over and ignored it.

The alarm went off at 6:15 am.

In the past, I would have already been in the kitchen, making him sandwiches.

Whole-wheat bread, lettuce, a fried egg, low-fat cheese, and ham, seared until the edges were just slightly crispy.

Ashton had eaten them for eight years without offering a single compliment, but if they were ever a fraction too salty, he would be in a foul mood for the entire day.

That day, I warmed up a glass of milk and sat at the dining table, sipping it slowly.