We’ve been married—at least in the eyes of our friends and family—for five years, but tonight marked the ninety-ninth time Lydia had unilaterally canceled our appointment to finally sign the legal papers. While the client across from me was sliding his hand up my thigh, Lydia was busy leaning into her male assistant, Toby, sharing a glass of wine with an intimacy that made the rest of the room vanish. To keep the peace and avoid ruining the "big night" for her, I didn't push the client away. Instead, I drowned my discomfort in glass after glass of whiskey until my vision blurred and my chest felt like it was being crushed by a vice. Lydia didn't even blink. She was too occupied meticulously picking the shallots out of Toby’s bowl, murmuring soft, coaxing words to get him to eat. When the dinner finally wrapped up, Toby mentioned he was feeling a bit "restless." Without a second thought, Lydia looked at me and told me to get out of the car. She was taking him elsewhere to keep the night going. "The kid’s been working so hard lately, Beck. I need to take him out to unwind," she said, her voice dismissive. "You don't really get the kind of things younger people enjoy anyway. Don't be a buzzkill." "Oh, and tonight’s going to go late. Let’s push the courthouse appointment again. We’ll do it some other time." I just nodded. If she was always this busy, then perhaps those papers weren't meant to be signed at all. … Toby rolled down the passenger side window halfway, sticking his tongue out in a mock-apologetic pout. "Sorry, Beck! Lydia just spoils me too much. I’ll make sure she brings you some takeout when she finally gets home!" Before I could even find my voice, Lydia reached over and affectionately ruffled his hair. "Ignore him, Toby. He’s just a little drama queen. If he eats late, he’ll just start complaining about 'food poisoning' or 'allergic reactions' again. I don't have the energy for his attention-seeking stunts tonight." The air left my lungs. She had seen me struggling at dinner. She hadn't missed the cold sweat or the way I was gasping for air. She just thought I was faking it to spite her. In the past, this would have been the moment I broke down. I would have screamed, cried, and begged her to see me. But tonight, I felt a strange, hollow calm. "Sure," I said, stepping back from the car. "Have a great time." Lydia froze for a second, a flicker of confusion crossing her face before her usual mask of mockery returned. "Good. It’s about time you stopped making a scene." The car roared to life and sped away. Just before they turned the corner, Lydia lowered all the windows so Toby wouldn't feel "stuffy." I’m prone to severe motion sickness—especially in her car—but she had never once lowered a window for me. The dust will ruin the leather, she’d say. Stop being so high-maintenance. I looked down at the gold band on my finger. I twisted it off and threw it into the dark, churning waters of the river nearby. The next morning, I went to the conservatory early to begin the handover. I’ve been Lydia’s manager since she debuted as a piano prodigy a decade ago. I’ve been the engine behind her grace. "You’re resigning? Does Lydia know?" my boss, Marcus, asked, his jaw dropping. "She’ll find out when the new manager arrives." I walked out of his office and toward the main concert hall. I ran into Lydia near the stage. She was wearing a new silk slip dress, smelling of expensive soap and a hotel’s bottled shampoo. She ran a hand through her hair, looking down at me with guarded eyes. "I drank too much to drive last night. I grabbed a room nearby to sleep it off. That’s why I didn't come home." In ten years, this was the first time Lydia had ever offered me an explanation for her absence. I simply nodded. I had nothing to say. "Do you have a project this morning?" she asked, her brow furrowing. I looked at her, remembering how, after every one of her late-night galas, I’d be up by 5:00 AM to prepare a specialized detox soup and her stomach medication. Since she was eighteen, that had been our ritual. I suppose she was confused that there had been nothing waiting for her on the kitchen island this morning. "Something like that," I replied. I turned to walk away, but Lydia’s face darkened. She grabbed my wrist, her grip tight and punishing. "Beck, that’s enough. It was just one missed appointment. We’ll reschedule. Stop being so damn difficult. It’s getting pathetic." I wasn't being difficult. I was done. I opened my mouth to tell her exactly that, but a high-pitched, whiny voice cut through the air. "Lydia! It’s all your fault!" Toby was stomping toward us, looking like a pouting child. "The underwear you bought me this morning is the wrong size! These briefs are way too tight. You’re such a typical ‘clueless older sister’ type, Lydia!" The moment Lydia saw him, she practically shoved me aside to get to him. Her voice, once cold and sharp with me, was suddenly thick with maternal worry. "You have a fever and a stomach bug, and you're running around barefoot on a cold floor? Do you want to end up in the hospital?" A memory flickered in my mind. Last month, I had a flu so bad my fever hit 104. I was curled in a ball, shivering, begging her to drive me to the urgent care. She had just rolled her eyes. What good are you if you're always sick? It's just a fever, Beck. Grow up. I watched her lead Toby away, her arm wrapped firmly around his waist. I suppressed the ache in my chest and pulled out my phone. I messaged the headhunter who had been trying to poach me for an international touring circuit for years. After I booked my one-way flight, a notification popped up on Instagram. Toby had tagged me in a Live Photo. It was a shot of a slender, elegant hand—Lydia’s hand—massaging his stomach. The audio captured his soft moan: "Lydia, your hands are so warm..." The caption read: [Big sis feels bad that my tummy hurts. She said she’ll rub the pain away! It feels so good to be cherished like this~] I hit 'like' on the post. Then, I went to my own profile and deleted our wedding photo—the one that had been my cover image for five years. ... The hall was packed today with visiting musicians for an exchange program. Since I was in the middle of a handover, I still had to play host. I led a group of performers into the lounge for a break. We walked in to find Lydia sitting at a small table, hand-feeding Toby a bowl of porridge. "Wow," one of the visiting violinists whispered. "I heard Lydia was devoted to her husband, Beck, but look at them! And a pianist’s hands are so precious... she’s using them to pick through his food. That’s true love." Yes, her hands were her life. For ten years, I had handled every chore, every heavy bag, every sharp object, terrified she might even get a scratch. And now, she was using those hands to serve another man. The chatter finally caught their attention. Toby saw me and immediately put on a theatrical pout. "Beck, talk to Lydia! She’s forcing me to eat this healthy porridge. I’m so sick of it!" Lydia didn't even look at me. She gently wiped a drop of broth from the corner of Toby’s mouth. "Be good. Finish this, then take your fever reducers." The room went silent as the visiting musicians realized the man Lydia was doting on wasn't me. I felt their awkward glances. I kept a professional smile on my face and showed them to their seats. Once everyone was settled, I pulled out my phone to finish my online visa application. "A visa? Who are you getting a visa for?" Lydia had appeared behind me, her voice sharp and suspicious. Before I could answer, she lunged forward and grabbed my hand. Her eyes widened in genuine shock. "Beck, where is your ring?" She sounded breathless. "Don't tell me you forgot it at home." I knew why she was panicking. In eight years of being together, that ring had never left my finger. Hers, however, had never seen the light of day outside our bedroom. Anxiety flashed in her eyes. She squeezed my hand until it hurt. "Answer me!" I was about to tell her the truth when Toby let out a piercing shriek. "Ow! It hurts! Lydia, help!" Everyone turned. Toby was on the floor by the grand piano, cradling a hand that was dripping blood. Lydia shoved me back, nearly sending me into a table, and ran to him. "What happened?" Toby’s face was a mask of tears as he buried himself in Lydia’s chest. He cast a fearful, accusing look in my direction. "I don't know... Beck was supposed to check the piano last night... I didn't see the broken glass on the lid... it hurts so much..." Lydia looked at the piano lid. A jagged shard of glass, stained red, sat right where a performer would rest their hand. Her face twisted into a mask of pure rage. She spun on me, her voice a whip-crack that echoed through the hall. "Beck! Are you so desperate and twisted that you’d actually try to maim someone?" "Get over here and apologize. Now!" I felt the weight of a dozen judgmental stares. I walked calmly toward them. "I didn't do it." "Who else could it be? Everyone knows how controlling you are. You’re the only one who touches my equipment!" Lydia didn't wait for another word. She grabbed a ceramic figurine from the side table—a small, custom piece she’d commissioned for our third anniversary—and smashed it onto the floor. Then, she grabbed my hands and slammed them down into the sea of sharp porcelain shards. Pain exploded through my palms. I felt the grit and the sharp edges slicing deep into my flesh. "Consider this a lesson," she hissed. "And nobody help him clean this up! I want you to sit there and reflect on what you've done. Don't come to me until you're ready to beg for forgiveness." She scooped Toby up in her arms and walked out without a single backward glance. My eyes blurred. My tears hit the broken ceramic, mixing with the blood pooling on the floor. It hurt—physically, it was agonizing—but the feeling in my chest was worse. It was the feeling of a vacuum, the last bit of air being sucked out of a room. The ceramic figurine was now in pieces. A small silk prayer pouch fell out from the hollow center. Lydia had gone to a temple to have this made when she proposed to me. Back then, she had looked at me with such intensity, such devotion. Beck, I promised the universe that we’d be together forever. Nothing will ever break us. And here she was, the one holding the hammer. I gathered the shards, one by one, and threw them—along with every lingering memory—into the trash. As I walked through the main lobby, I heard a roar of applause. Lydia’s performance had ended. She was on stage, radiant and triumphant, holding Toby’s hand as they bowed together. I had seen her in this spotlight a thousand times. A few months ago, I overheard Marcus ask her, "Beck has given his life to your career. You’re partners in every sense. Why don't you ever bring him on stage to share the credit?" Lydia’s voice had been cold. "I got here because of my talent. He’s just a coat-tail rider. Besides, he’s getting older... he doesn't exactly fit the 'image' I want to project." On stage now, Toby was beaming. Under the stage lights, they looked like the perfect pair. My phone buzzed. Visa Approved. I was halfway through packing my bags at the house when Lydia returned. She tossed a brown glass bottle onto the bed next to me. "I brought you something for your hands." I picked up the bottle. It was Betadine—the same bottle I’d seen in Toby’s Instagram story earlier. Lydia had used it to treat his scratch. The problem was, I’m deathly allergic to Betadine. When Lydia first started her career at eighteen, a jealous rival had hired a thug to jump her and "ruin" her hands. I had thrown myself in front of her, taking the brunt of the attack. My injuries were minor, but a medic had used Betadine on my scrapes. I went into anaphylactic shock. I spent twenty-four hours in the ICU, hovering between life and death. Lydia had spent those twenty-four hours sobbing outside my door. When I was discharged, she went on a rampage, throwing out every antiseptic in the house and making it a legal clause in her riders that Betadine was never to be allowed near her. And now, she was the one handing it to me. I dropped the bottle into the wastebasket. Lydia sneered. "Fine. Suit yourself. Bleed out for all I care." Her phone chimed. Her expression softened instantly. She recorded a voice memo, her tone honey-sweet: "Hey kid, remember not to let that scratch get wet. Stick to the diet I gave you. When you're better, I'll take you out for that steak dinner I promised." She lingered by the door, seemingly unsettled by my silence. Finally, she spoke again. "What I did today... I had to make an example out of you. You know how much politics there is in the orchestra. I had to show them I don't play favorites." "And the way I’m taking care of Toby? It’s for your own good. It keeps people from gossiping about your 'jealousy'." I nodded. No arguments. No explanations. "I understand," I said. Lydia blinked, a strange, flickering look of unease crossing her face. She looked like she wanted to say something else, but I turned away and went into the bathroom to pack my toiletries. There, sitting prominently on the counter, was a pair of black-and-white patterned boxers. They weren't mine. Lydia’s phone buzzed with another voice memo: "Lydia! I forgot my undies in your bathroom this morning... can you bring them to me? Also, I love the way your shower gel smells. Can you bring me a bottle of that too?" Everything clicked. The silk dress she wore this morning—a color she usually hated but Toby loved. The scent of the hotel soap. She followed his every whim. Lydia hurried into the bathroom to grab the boxers, stopping short when she saw me standing there next to them.
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