Five years of marriage, and my wife has just burned through her ninety-seventh "Grace Token." Those little slips of paper, hand-stamped with promises, were supposed to be her security blanket when we first wed. Ninety-nine of them—a symbolic vow that I would walk with her until the very end, through every stumble and every spat. But she’s spent them like pocket change on her "muse," her young obsession. Every time she stumbles home in the dead of night, she tosses one at me with a casual shrug, another piece of our history turned into a get-out-of-jail-free card. It came to a head tonight. She was halfway out the door to rescue her "assistant"—her little stray, Logan—when I reached out and caught her wrist. "Can I use one this time?" I asked, my voice sounding foreign even to me. "Can I use a token to ask you to stay?" She paused, then laughed, patting my hand as if I were a petulant child. "You’ve still got over sixty left, babe. Use them for whatever you want. I have to go." I watched her back as she disappeared into the night, then slowly tucked the voided slip into my pocket. She didn’t know. No one did. That was number ninety-seven. Back then, she was the one who chased me. She proposed ninety-nine times before I finally said yes, moved by the sheer tenacity of her devotion. Now, there are only two tokens left between us. And I’m done crying for her to stay. 1 Tonight was the victory gala for the East Side project. It was also exactly three days since I’d been discharged from the hospital following major liver surgery. The room was a blur of silk and champagne until Logan, Lydia’s "secretary," managed to topple a champagne tower. The crystal cascaded down, soaking our most important investor in expensive vintage brut. Lydia’s first instinct wasn't to apologize to the client. It was to pull Logan behind her, shielding him like a mother hen. Then, without a flicker of hesitation, she pointed at me. "Adrian, apologize to Mr. Lewis." I froze, the words hitting me like a physical blow. Even the investor looked uncomfortable, frowning as he gestured toward Logan. "Lydia, the boy caused the mess. I only want an apology from him." Logan’s eyes welled with practiced tears. He tugged at Lydia’s sleeve, the picture of a kicked puppy. Lydia’s expression softened instantly. She squeezed his hand and turned back to me, her voice hardening. "What are you waiting for? Pour Mr. Lewis a drink. Now." "Lydia—" I started, my voice thin. "One glass won't do it? Then make it two. Or three. Whatever it takes to make Mr. Lewis feel better," she snapped. She had forgotten I was on post-op medication. Or perhaps, she simply didn’t care that a single drop of alcohol could send my recovery into a tailspin. The whispers started then. I could feel the pity in the room, thick and suffocating. Everyone saw the truth: it wasn't my fault, but Lydia was hell-bent on protecting her pet. I opened my mouth to refuse, but Lydia leaned in. Her lips moved, barely a whisper, framing two words: Grace Token. When we were in college, Lydia proposed ninety-nine times. I turned her down ninety-nine times, terrified of her intensity. On the hundredth time, she gathered our entire world—friends, family, professors—and swore a blood-oath: “Adrian, it’s only ever been you. If you say no, I’ll just ask again. And again. Until you’re mine.” I let her in. I gave her my life. And on our wedding night, I gave her those ninety-nine tokens. A pact: as long as we had tokens, we were forever. For the first three years, she treated them like diamonds. She never used one. Then Logan appeared. In two years, she had burned through ninety-six. Now, number ninety-seven was being used to force a drink down my throat. My knuckles were white as I took the glass. I forced a smile for the investor. "Mr. Lewis. My apologies." The man sighed, sensing my desperation. "Just a sip, son. It’s fine." I didn't take a sip. I drained the glass. The red wine burned like acid, clashing with the medicine in my system. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lydia playfully pinching Logan’s nose. "You little troublemaker," she cooed, her voice a honeyed caress. "Watch your step next time. I’d hate for you to get hurt." Logan beamed, clutching her hand. "You're too good to me, Lydia." Too good, I thought. The wine hit the back of my throat, making my eyes sting. It’s okay, I told myself. Only two left. 2 After the gala, I instinctively went for the passenger side of our SUV. Just as my hand touched the handle, I heard the sharp click of the locks. Lydia rolled down the window, looking at me with a cold, detached disdain. "Take an Uber," she said. "I just had the interior detailed. You reek of booze. It’s disgusting." She seemed to have completely erased the fact that she was the one who forced that smell onto me. Her disgust was brighter than the streetlights. In the past, I would have panicked. I would have scrubbed my skin raw, crying, pleading with her to understand it was just one drink. Or I would have stood there on the curb and screamed, demanding to know why she traded my dignity for Logan’s comfort. This time, I just nodded. "Okay. Drive safe." Lydia’s grip on the steering wheel faltered. She looked at me, confused by the lack of friction. "Adrian, you—" Before she could finish, Logan appeared, practically skipping as he pushed past me. "Ready to go, Lydia! All packed up!" He was draped in Lydia’s spare blazer. His shirt was still soaked in champagne, the smell of fermented grapes far more pungent than the single glass I’d consumed. Lydia didn't mention the smell. She got out of the car, personally opened the door for him, and tucked the blazer tighter around his shoulders. "It’s chilly. Don’t catch a cold." Only then did she look back at me, a flicker of guilt crossing her face. "Don’t read into this. Logan is young, he’s still learning the ropes. He needs the guidance." I nodded again. "I understand." I added, just to be sure, "You used a token, remember? I’m not angry." She stiffened. She wanted to say something, but Logan let out a theatrical sneeze, and her attention snapped back to him instantly. "Go home," she tossed over her shoulder as they sped away. I stood in the dark, a cold shiver racing down my spine. When I got home, I pulled the ceramic jar—the one we’d labeled The Treasury—from the back of the closet. I reached in, my fingers fumbling through the small slips of paper until I found one. I shredded the ninety-seventh token into tiny pieces. Then, I sat at my laptop and began drafting the separation agreement. I called my mentor, Professor Whitlock, for advice. "Professor, if I were to file for divorce, how should we handle the equity split on the downtown firm?" The Professor was silent for a long beat. "Divorce? Adrian, what happened? The whole department still talks about how she chased you for years. You two are the campus legend." A legend, I thought. A ghost story, more like. "It just... ran its course," I said quietly. It started with the scent of his cologne on her neck. It grew with the nights she didn't come home. It accelerated every time she reached into that jar to buy my silence. The Professor didn't push. "I’ll draft the paperwork for you. When do you need it?" I looked at the jar on the desk. "When Lydia uses her last two chances." The front door creaked open. "What chances?" Lydia asked, stepping into the room with a shopping bag in her hand. 3 I snapped the laptop shut. "Nothing. Just talking to the Professor about some pro-bono work." Lydia’s eyes narrowed, and she crossed the room toward me. "Divorce? I thought I heard the word divorce." I stepped back, keeping the desk between us. "Just a case we're looking at. He wanted my perspective on a filing." She exhaled, the tension leaving her shoulders. She held out the bag. "Here. For you." The logo on the bag was from my favorite patisserie—the place where we used to go when we were first dating. Back then, if she upset me, she would wait in line for two hours, rain or shine, just to bring me a specific lemon tart. “Anything for you, Adrian,” she used to say. “It’s my pleasure.” A faint, bitter warmth stirred in my chest. I reached for the bag. "I didn't think you remembered... what is this?" I stopped. My heart sank. Inside weren't tarts. There were two shirts, heavy with the smell of stale alcohol. One was Lydia’s silk gala wrap; the other was Logan’s champagne-soaked button-down. Lydia didn't even look ashamed. "Logan’s shirt is a mess. I figured since you were doing a load of laundry anyway, you wouldn't mind. It’s just easier if you handle it." She saw my expression and her voice took on that defensive, "reasonable" tone. "Look, I’ll use another token. I know how you get about 'chores.' There, we’re good, right?" The words died in my throat. I wanted to tell her: Lydia, there is only one left. You just used the ninety-eighth. But instead, I just looked at her. I took the clothes and walked them to the laundry room. I used to hand-wash her silks, obsessed with making sure she looked perfect. I realized then how much of a fool I had been. My devotion had become her convenience. To her, I wasn't a husband; I was an upscale, live-in housekeeper. I tossed the clothes into the machine and turned it on. When I returned to the bedroom, Lydia looked up. "Done already? Did you get the stain out? That’s Logan’s favorite shirt. I promised him you’d take care of it." "It’s in the wash," I said flatly, already thinking about which dry cleaner I could call tomorrow to handle the rest of my life. Her phone rang—a bright, upbeat chime. Lydia glanced at me, then slipped out onto the balcony. I followed silently, standing just behind the sheer curtains. I heard Logan’s voice on the other end, playful and whining. "Lydia, the cake you bought me is so good! I’ve never had anything like it." "I told you it was worth the wait," Lydia replied, her voice dropping into that intimate register she used to save for me. "But you had to wait so long in line... I feel bad." Lydia chuckled. "For you? I’d wait all night. It’s my pleasure." Logan let out a soft laugh. "And my shirt? Is it okay that Adrian is washing it? I don’t want to cause trouble." "Don't worry about him," Lydia said, her tone dismissive. "He’s used to it. Besides, your hands are too nice for manual labor. I’d hate to see them get rough." I looked down at my own hands. Reddened from years of housework, the skin around my knuckles dry and cracked. She was right. I wasn't the man she’d fallen for anymore. I was the man she’d used up. I retreated to the bathroom, feeling a wave of nausea. Ten minutes later, Lydia knocked on the door. "Adrian, something came up at the office. I have to head back. Don't wait up." "Lydia," I called out as she reached for her keys. "If you don't come back tonight... can I use a token?" I looked at her, my eyes damp despite my best efforts. She paused, her hand on the doorknob. 4 "Sure," she said, flashing a quick, easy smile. "But you won't need to. I’ll be back by midnight, I promise." I watched her go. I had three hours until midnight. I pulled out my phone and ordered a cake from the same patisserie. Lydia’s assistant, Sarah, posted a photo on Instagram: “Finally leaving the office! Empty building, spooky vibes.” Lydia was nowhere in the background. Lydia texted me: “Just got to the office. Mountains of paperwork. Home soon.” Two hours until midnight. I was clearing out my old photos when I found the one of her hundredth proposal. I posted it to my private feed with a simple caption: “Five years. How quickly the time goes.” Lydia commented almost instantly: “More than five. Forever.” She followed up with a text: a photo of the city skyline. “The moon is beautiful tonight. Thinking of you.” I didn't reply. I knew that skyline. Those buildings weren't near her office. They were the view from The Gilded Lily, the most romantic rooftop restaurant in the city. Logan posted a story, visible only to a "Close Friends" list he’d forgotten I was on. “She says she’s married to her past, but I’m her future.” In the corner of the frame, Lydia’s hand was visible, resting on the table. Her wedding ring was missing. One hour until midnight. I sat on the sofa, playing our wedding video on loop while I ate the lemon tart I’d ordered. It tasted like ash. I realized then that I would never want this cake again. One minute until midnight. I pulled the very last token from the jar. There was a knock at the door. I froze, then hurried to open it. "Delivery for Adrian," a courier said, holding out a sleek, expensive-looking watch box. "A gift from Lydia. Please sign here." Simultaneously, my phone buzzed. “So sorry, honey. Work is running late, going to crash at the office suite. Use that token if you want. I’ll bring you that cake you like tomorrow.” I went to type a response, but my hand brushed against the bookshelf. Our framed wedding portrait—the big one that had sat there for five years—toppled over. The glass shattered, the shards scattering across the hardwood floor. The courier jumped. "Sir? You okay? Want me to help you clean that up?" I shook my head. I picked up my phone and sent the last text I would ever send her as her husband. “Don’t bother with the cake, Lydia. The tokens are all gone.” “I’m filing for divorce.” The next second, my phone exploded with notifications.
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