It was International Women’s Day, a day supposedly meant for honoring the women who anchor our lives. Instead, I watched my husband hand a bouquet of fresh-cut peonies—the ones he’d promised were for our anniversary dinner—to the woman living in the apartment next door. His first love. “She’s been living alone for so many years, Diana,” Parker said, his voice smooth but hurried. “It’s Women’s Day. I just wanted to do something kind. Don't worry, I’ll be back in five minutes and then we’re straight to the theater, okay?” He was wearing the deep navy silk robe I’d bought him for Christmas. It was cinched loosely, the collar hanging open to reveal far more skin than was appropriate for a neighborly visit. We had been married for five years. The last time I’d seen him look this frantic, this desperate, was three years ago when I’d come home early from a business trip. I’d walked into the living room to find him entangled with that same woman on our velvet sofa. The image of their pale, intertwined limbs had seared itself into my retinas. Back then, he had dropped to his knees, sobbing. He didn’t even bother to wipe the sweat from his face; he just grabbed a throw blanket to cover Lydia, his high school sweetheart. “Rose, please... she seduced me. I didn’t want this, I swear!” “Don’t leave me. Please, I’m begging you...” I stayed. I stayed for the sake of our families—our fathers had been business partners for decades, and our lives were woven together in a tapestry of social obligations. For a long time, he was a model husband. He was attentive, domestic, and eager to please me in every way possible. Until tonight. I looked at the restless hunger in his eyes and reached out to straighten the ribbon on the bouquet. “Go on then,” I said quietly. “Give them to her while they’re still fresh.” I knew, even as the words left my mouth, that after those flowers were delivered, there would be no "us" left to save. 1 Parker clearly hadn't expected me to cave so easily. He froze for a second, then a look of pure, boyish relief broke across his face. He leaned in to pull me into a hug. “Thanks, babe! You’re the best, seriously. I’ll be back before you can even pick out a pair of shoes!” I tilted my head, letting his kiss land harmlessly on my cheek. But I couldn't stop the last shred of wife-like instinct from speaking up. “Parker, it’s pouring out there. You’re going out in just your robe?” He hesitated, his gaze flickering toward the door. “Lydia keeps her place like a sauna. I’ll be fine. I’m literally going twenty feet. I’ll be right back.” “I mean it,” he added, almost as a challenge to himself. He didn't look back at me. He slipped out the door and into the hallway. A few heartbeats later, I heard the heavy thud of the door next door closing. It felt like a physical blow to my chest. I walked over to the window. From this angle, I could see the glow of Lydia’s living room. She was standing there in a silk slip dress that left nothing to the imagination. As soon as Parker entered, she threw herself into his arms. Parker didn't pull away. He didn't even pretend to. He wrapped his arms around her, their heads leaning together in a dark, intimate whisper. Then, slowly, the curtains were drawn, cutting off the view and leaving me in the shadows of our own apartment. I looked at my phone. 8:00 PM. The gala we were supposed to attend was starting. I looked at the few stray flowers left on the table—the rejects he hadn’t put in her bouquet. A wave of nausea rolled through me. I picked up the half-empty bottle of expensive red wine I’d opened and dumped it, along with the wilting flowers, into the trash. This five-year marriage was exactly like those flowers: something that should never have been forced to live this long. I was the only one tending the soil, and I’d finally run out of water. Half an hour passed. Parker didn't return. The TV was on in the background, some festive special blaring cheerful music that felt like a mockery of my stupidity. I sat on the sofa, watching my phone screen light up and dim, light up and dim. The family group chat was exploding. Cousins were posting photos from various parties and events. A message from my mother popped up, tagging me: “Diana, where’s Parker? Why haven’t you posted any photos of the two of you tonight?” “You guys better be out celebrating! Send me a picture of that dress you bought!” Reading her voice in my head made my throat tighten. My mother adored Parker. Three years ago, when I’d caught him, she was the one who held my hand and begged me to give him another chance. She reminded me of how much our families owed each other, how a scandal would break my father’s heart. I forced a smile I didn't feel and took a photo of the discarded bouquet on the counter from an angle that looked intentional. I texted back: “He’s tied up with something right now, Mom. I’ll call you in a bit.” Just as I set the phone down, a notification red dot appeared on my Instagram feed. It was Lydia. It was a photo of the peonies in a crystal vase. In the blurred background, you could clearly see the distinctive navy silk of Parker’s robe. The caption read: Another year ends, and you’re still the only one by my side. Thank you for always being there. Parker had already "liked" it. I let out a short, dry laugh. I was done waiting. I stood up, walked into our bedroom, and pulled my suitcase from the top of the closet. I had bought this penthouse with my own money when we got married. Parker had lived here, rent-free, for years. I’d chosen this building specifically because there were only two units per floor, thinking it would give us privacy. Now, his designer suits took up three-quarters of the walk-in closet. As I started packing, I realized with a jolt how little of "me" was actually in this room. I couldn't find a single thing in the apartment that he had bought for me out of genuine thought. Five years, and we were less than roommates. We were a business arrangement that had gone bankrupt. I shook my head, tucked my passport and some essentials into my bag, and moved to the study to gather my professional files. By the time I was finished, it was nearly midnight. I sat back on the sofa and waited until the clock struck twelve before calling him. It rang for a long time. When he finally picked up, the background was loud—music, laughter. Parker sounded breathless, his voice laced with an edge of annoyance. “Hey. Look, Diana, I’m on my way back. Lydia’s still showing me her new art pieces, okay?” Right as he finished the sentence, I heard a woman’s low, melodic giggle on the other end. A second later, Parker’s voice hitched, turning into a muffled groan. “Mmm… Diana… I gotta go…” The line went dead. 2 I walked out onto the balcony, watching the distant fireworks over the city skyline. I remembered five years ago—Parker in a white tuxedo, promising forever before a priest. But there are no gods in this city, and there was no loyalty in Parker. One look from Lydia, and I ceased to exist. When Lydia first moved into 4B, he’d acted outraged. He’d complained to me about how she was "stalking" him, how she wouldn't let the past stay dead. Looking back, it was a masterful performance. He wasn't annoyed; he was setting the stage. Thirty minutes later, the front door unlocked. Parker stumbled in, smelling of a perfume that wasn't mine. He was carrying a floral umbrella. Lydia’s umbrella. He had that post-coital glow, a lazy, satisfied slump to his shoulders. “Babe, I am so sorry. Got caught up. Are we still good to go out?” He stepped toward me, trying to pull me into his arms. The scent of her—heavy, cloying vanilla—hit me like a physical wall. I stepped back, avoiding his touch. “Are the flowers pretty?” I asked. He blinked, a practiced, charming smile sliding onto his face. “They’re great. Lydia said you have impeccable taste.” I looked at him, and the very last spark of affection I held for him flickered out into ash. “She said that? By what right does she get to comment on my taste?” Parker realized his mistake, his tone shifting to that "calm down" voice men use when they want to make you sound crazy. “Hey, it was just a compliment. Don’t be petty, Diana. It’s a holiday.” As he spoke, he carelessly leaned Lydia’s umbrella against the coat rack, right next to my wool trench coat. It felt like a silent, mocking invasion. “Parker, do you remember the promise you made me three years ago?” His body stiffened. The smile became a brittle mask. “Of course I do. I said I was done with the past. And I am. Tonight was just... she was lonely, and I felt sorry for her...” “Sorry enough to go over there with your robe hanging open?” Parker turned deathly pale. He instinctively clutched the lapels of his robe shut. “Diana, let me explain—” “Don’t.” I pointed to the coffee table, where a manila envelope sat. “Sign the papers.” The color didn't come back to his face. He looked at the divorce decree as if it were a coiled snake. “Diana, are you seriously doing this? Tonight? On a holiday?” “I told you, she’s alone. We’re neighbors, we went to school together. What’s the big deal about being a good person?” “It was a bouquet of flowers! You used to be bigger than this. You’re being so small-minded.” The more he spoke, the more "disappointed" he sounded, as if I were the one failing him. In the past, this was where I would have softened. I would have wondered if I was being too sensitive. Now, I just felt a deep, oily sense of disgust. “Parker,” I interrupted his performance. “The curtains weren't closed all the way. And you aren't a good enough actor to hide what you were doing on the phone.” His face went slack. The mask shattered, leaving only a panicked, pathetic man underneath. He pulled the robe tighter, trying to hide the marks I knew were on his skin. “You... you were spying on me?” The sheer audacity of the deflection made me laugh. I didn't answer. I just turned and went into the bedroom to grab my suitcase. Parker chased after me, grabbing the handle of my bag. “I’m not letting you leave! I didn't mean that, okay? I’m sorry. I was out of line.” “Look, nothing happened. We... we just got caught up in the moment, a kiss, that’s it! Nothing more!” “You know how it is. It’s the history. It’s hard to just turn it off. But you’re the one I love! We’ve been married for five years. Are you really going to throw away our home over a stupid mistake?” He sounded so sincere. Exactly like he had five years ago. I’d believed him then, thinking he was just confused. But a man who is "confused" for five years is just a man who is a liar. I shoved his hand off the suitcase, but before I could reach the door, my phone began to scream. It was my father. I answered, and my father’s voice came through the line, jagged and unrecognizable with panic. “Diana! Get to the hospital! Now! Your mother... it’s her heart. They’re taking her into surgery!” 3 The world tilted. My suitcase hit the floor with a heavy thud. “Dad? Dad, stay calm. I’m coming. I’m coming right now!” I grabbed my keys and bolted for the door. Parker was startled, too. He followed me toward the elevator. “I’m coming with you! You know how much she means to me!” I didn't even look at him. When the elevator doors opened, I sprinted toward the parking garage. But when I got to my SUV and reached into my bag, my hand hit empty leather. My car keys were gone. Parker stood by the car door, his eyes darting everywhere but at my face. “Where are my keys, Parker?” I asked, my voice dangerously low. “I... I thought we weren't going anywhere tonight. I lent them to Lydia’s parents. They needed to pick someone up from the airport and their car wouldn't start...” He couldn't even look at me. I didn't have time for his lies. I shoved past him, running toward the street to hail a cab. But it was midnight on a holiday in a secluded, high-end residential district. The streets were empty. “Call an Uber! Now!” I screamed at him as I ran toward the gate. Parker pulled out his phone, his fingers fumbling with the screen. “I... my phone’s dead. It just shut off.” My heart plummeted. My mother had a serious heart condition. I knew why this was happening—my father had mentioned earlier that day that he was worried about how much time Parker was spending "next door." My mother was a woman of immense pride and she loved me fiercely. The stress of the rumors must have finally broken her. I looked at my own phone. The rideshare app was spinning—no cars available for fifteen minutes. I couldn't wait. I ran toward the security kiosk to ask for help. As I passed Lydia’s designated parking spot, I saw a brand-new Mercedes sitting there. “Parker, go to Lydia’s. Now. Tell her to drive me to the hospital!” It was the most humiliating thing I had ever had to say. But Parker grabbed my arm, pulling me back. “No! We can't ask her!” “It’s a matter of life and death, Parker! Let go of me!” I tried to shake him off, but he gripped my wrist with a terrifying strength. “Diana, please! Just don’t go over there... she... she’s been drinking. She can’t drive!” I looked at the sheer, unadulterated guilt written on his face. “Are you afraid of what I’ll see? I don’t care!” “I don’t give a damn if you were screwing her five minutes ago! I need a car!” Parker seemed shocked by my outburst. He finally let go, looking defeated. He ran up to 4B and pounded on the door. The door opened. Lydia stood there in her slip dress, her hair damp, the air of the apartment smelling of sex and expensive gin. Parker started explaining, his voice shaking. Lydia leaned against the doorframe, a slow, cruel smirk spreading across her lips as she looked at me. “If you want a favor, Diana, ask for it yourself. Don’t use my Parker as a messenger.” My chest was heaving, but for the sake of my mother, I swallowed every ounce of my pride. “Lydia. Please. Let me borrow the car.” She didn't move. She took a slow drag from a cigarette she’d just lit and exhaled the smoke directly into my face. I choked on the gray cloud, my eyes watering, but I didn't move. She tapped the ash onto the hallway carpet and gestured toward the floor with her chin. “You want the car? Show me some respect. It’s a holiday. A little 'thank you' on your knees wouldn't be out of place for a girl like you, would it?” My eyes burned. I turned to Parker. “Is this what you want?” Parker looked away, his voice a pathetic mumble. “Diana, just do it. Don’t be stubborn. Your mom is waiting.” “Lydia’s just upset because of how you’ve been acting tonight. She just wants an apology. Just... give her what she wants so we can go.” The coldness that settled in my bones was absolute. Lydia laughed, a bright, tinkling sound, and leaned her head on Parker’s shoulder. “See? Parker understands. If you won't bow, then get lost. We have a long night ahead of us.” The seconds were ticking by. Every heartbeat was a second my mother might not have. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, there was nothing left but a dead, hollow silence. “Fine.” 4 I let my knees hit the hard wood of the hallway floor. Thud. The sound of my pride breaking was deafening in my own ears. Humiliation washed over me like freezing water. Satisfied, Lydia chirped a little laugh and tossed her car keys. They struck me in the face, the metal leaving a sharp sting on my cheek before clattering to the floor. As I reached for them, she playfully kicked them further down the hall. “Oops. My hand slipped. You’ll have to fetch them, sweetie.” Then, she wrapped her arms around Parker’s neck and planted a lingering, possessive kiss on his cheek. “Parker’s staying here. Good luck at the hospital.” She slammed the door. I didn't waste a second. I grabbed the keys, ignored the sob trapped in my throat, and ran for the stairs. But when I got into the Mercedes and pressed the ignition, the dashboard glowed red. The tank was bone-dry. Empty. The car wouldn't even make it out of the parking garage, let alone thirty miles to the city hospital. “You bitch!” I slammed my fist against the steering wheel, the sound of my own breakdown muffled by the luxury interior. She had planned this. Every second of it. I pulled out my phone to scream at Parker, but my finger slipped and opened my Instagram feed instead. Parker had just posted. It was a video of me. Me, on my knees in the hallway. Me, looking broken and pathetic. The caption: When the 'Ice Queen' finally learns her place. Some guys just have that touch. He’d filmed it. While I was debasing myself to save my mother’s life, he was thinking about how many likes he could get from his "bros." I scrolled through the comments, my face burning as if I’d been slapped a thousand times. “Holy shit, Parker! You actually got her to bow? Absolute legend.” “I always knew Diana was a closet sub. Nice work, man.” “Lydia for the win! Taking back what’s hers.” My stomach turned. But I couldn't afford revenge yet. Not yet. I wiped my eyes, gritted my teeth until I tasted blood, and forced myself to think. I opened the neighborhood's private community group on Facebook. HELP. Emergency. Mother having a heart attack. Need a ride to Mercy General immediately. Will pay anything. Most of the residents were asleep or out, but a few seconds later, a reply popped up. “I’m in 12C. I’ve got a car in the driveway. Come up.” Fifteen minutes later, I burst through the hospital doors. The fluorescent lights were blinding, the hallway smelling of antiseptic and death. My father was sitting on a plastic chair, looking as though he had aged ten years in a single night. When he saw me, his eyes filled with tears. “Diana... you’re here... your mother...” Before he could finish, a doctor in blue scrubs emerged from the double doors. “Doctor? How is she? Can I see her?” The doctor took a long, heavy breath and slowly shook his head. “I’m so sorry. We did everything we could.”
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