The night I got off work early, I came home carrying a barely touched kale Caesar salad. I pushed open the door. Jimmy Choo red-soles lay scattered in the entryway. Alex’s bespoke blazer was tossed over the couch. Heavy breathing and a woman’s moans leaked through the bedroom door. I knew this scene too well. But this time I didn’t storm out like before. I sat at the kitchen island and ate every last cold, soggy crouton and wilted salad leaf. *** Ten minutes later, the bedroom went quiet. Alex strolled out, shirtless, fresh scratches bleeding down his back. He saw me at the island. Didn’t even blink. Cracked open a beer. “Thought you were pulling an all-nighter at the firm.” I swallowed the last bite. Wiped my mouth. “Finished the cross-examination prep early.” He took a swig. Nodded. A young woman trailed out after him. Torn Victoria’s Secret lace chemise. Pale skin covered in red marks. Looks like it got intense. I recognized her. Alex’s new assistant. Madison. Fresh out of Cornell. Classic blonde sweetheart. She wrapped herself around him from behind. Voice lazy. “Alex, how did I do?” He smirked and ruffled her hair. “Perfect.” She pushed her luck, lips nearly pressed to his ear. “Next time… your Hamptons pool?” Before she finished, she spotted me at the island. Shrieked. Scrambled behind him like she’d just seen a burglar. I snorted. “She’s jumpier than the last one. That one just raised her martini and clinked glasses with me.” Madison’s face went scarlet all the way to her hairline. Alex shot me a glance. He patted her cheek. “Go get dressed, sweetheart. I’ll have my driver take you back to the Upper East Side.” After Madison left, he pulled a sparkling water from the fridge. Casual. “She’s young. Just out of school. Don’t take it out on her.” I let out a cold laugh. “You bring her to our marital bed. You want me to applaud?” The fresh hickey on his neck was still raw. Not a trace of guilt on his face. He sprawled on the couch. “I’m hungry. Heat up some pizza for me.” He grabbed the remote and flipped to ESPN. Like nothing happened. I didn’t move. He frowned. “What?” A sly grin spread. “What, jealous?” He came up behind me. Slid his arms around my waist. Fingertips dipping under my blouse. Cologne and stale sex hit me. My stomach lurched. I shoved him away. He froze. I’d never pushed him off before. His face darkened. “What the hell is wrong with you, Evelyn?” I looked down. A used condom wrapper on the carpet. He followed my gaze. Clicked his tongue in irritation. “I told you. You’re the lady of this house. Always. Can’t you just turn a blind eye? Every wife on the Upper East Side does it. They have their fun on the side. What’s with the face?” I stared at him. Blank. He buttoned his shirt. Cold. “Looking at you pisses me off.” The door slammed. A Porsche 911 engine roared in the garage.

Half an hour later, Alex’s Story popped up. Him and Madison in his penthouse jacuzzi. Fingers laced. Bubbles up to their chests. His left ring finger had a pale stripe where his wedding band used to be. I stared at the screen. Felt nothing. Almost laughed. This wasn’t his first time. Two years ago. Our Hamptons vacation house. I walked in on him and a client. My hands shook. A wine glass shattered on the floor. Two words came out. “Get divorced.” That was me. Obsessive love. Couldn’t stomach betrayal. He dropped to one knee. Held white roses. Cried till dawn. Swore it was a one-night stand during a Vegas work trip. He was blackout drunk. I cried all night. Didn’t give in. That next month, Alex tried everything. He booked out the three-Michelin-starred spot where we had our first date. Dug up old Yale Law photos. Recited every detail from the day we met to the wedding. Stood outside our firm holding a sign that said “I’m sorry” for an entire day. Suit rumpled. Face wrecked. I caved. For a while, he was perfect. Signed a postnuptial agreement. Shared his location 24/7. Blew off every work dinner to marathon Netflix with me. Less than six months later, I found him in the guest room with a Silicon Valley intern. He said he’d smoked too much weed. Thought she was me. I stood there holding my coffee, smiling like ice. He lost his temper and stormed out. After that, Alex stopped hiding anything. No more excuses. No more lies. He flaunted different women at charity galas. Brought them home. Over and over. I fell apart. Every morning I stood in front of the walk-in closet mirror. Stared at the fine lines under my eyes. The skin starting to sag along my jaw. The woman in the glass looked exhausted. Old. Was I not attractive anymore? Too boring? Was that why he had to chase thrills elsewhere? The thoughts wouldn’t stop. I stopped sleeping. Clumps of hair on my pillow. In the shower drain. The therapist’s report read “severe depression.” I was trapped in a maze with no exit. Every time I thought I found a way out, I turned the corner and saw Alex with another woman. Those images flashed on repeat. Three in the morning in our Manhattan apartment. I wanted to scream until I couldn’t breathe. The worst part? I knew the marriage was rotten. And still I couldn’t leave. Like I was cursed. Every time I got ready to call a divorce attorney, Alex would toss out a casual, “Hey sweetheart, I’ll be home for dinner tonight.” And I’d light up with pathetic hope again. I yelled. I fought. Dragged us to expensive counselors. The worst time, I grabbed a knife. I pressed the blade to his throat. Voice hoarse. “Alex, if you can’t keep it in your pants, let’s just get divorced. You do what you want. I get my freedom.” I knew I was sick. He’d driven me insane. I wasn’t myself. He just sighed. Pushed the knife away. “Evelyn, don’t make a scene. It’ll end up in the New York Post gossip column. What’ll that do to our families’ reputations?” “I promise you. You’ll always be Mrs. Cross. You’re the primary beneficiary on every legal document I have. That will never change.” Even more ridiculous, friends from the Hamptons crowd tried to talk me down. Those socialites sipped their Prosecco and spoke like they knew better. “Alex is the youngest managing director at Goldman Sachs. A husband who makes that much money? Count your blessings. Your trust fund is full. You’ve got a Hamptons house. What more do you want? His fidelity?” “Let him play around. Just don’t let him rub it in your face. That’s the Upper East Side code. Making it ugly only makes you look like the joke.” “Those women out there mean nothing. You’re in your thirties. Stop chasing true love.” Every word was a dull knife. I went numb from the humiliation. It took a long time before I could admit it to my therapist. Alex didn’t love me anymore. The boy who passed me a note in the law library, ears turning pink. The man who sobbed at our Central Park wedding, swearing he’d love only Evelyn forever. He died the night of that first Vegas affair. This man wore the same face. A stranger. The next morning, I called my old Columbia mentor, Professor Hathaway. “Professor, do you still need people for your climate project? I want in.” A few beats of silence. When I graduated, Professor Hathaway had pressed me hard to join her polar ice research team. A top National Science Foundation project. But it meant long stretches in Alaska or Greenland. Alex had held me and said, “Evelyn, I can’t stand the thought of you so far away. Stay in New York. Do corporate law. I’ll take care of you. We’ll get a penthouse on Park Avenue. Get a golden retriever.” “Evelyn.” Professor Hathaway’s voice pulled me back. “Are you sure? Conditions are brutal. Our next mission is the North Slope of Alaska. Might only have satellite internet for months.” She paused. “Does Alex… agree?” “Professor.” I cut in. “I’ve decided to divorce him.” “What happened?” “He cheated.” “Ten years together…” “Nothing to hold onto.” I took a breath. “Professor, I need to leave. As far as possible.” “Good. Evelyn, come. Your spot is still open.”

I handed in my resignation at the firm. The senior partner looked regretful. “Evelyn, with your cross-border M&A skills, junior partner next year was basically guaranteed. You’re sure?” I shook my head. Smiled. That seven-figure job. I only took it to prove myself in Alex’s Wall Street world. My real dream was always Professor Hathaway’s team. Real science. The remote corners of the world. What a joke. I traded my dream for endless billable hours and Alex’s betrayal. The next few days, Alex didn’t show up. Texts ignored. Calls bounced to his secretary. “Mr. Cross is in a meeting.” I was too busy handing off cases to chase him. Finalized the departure date with Professor Hathaway. Two weeks out. Flying to Fairbanks, Alaska, then a bush plane into the Arctic Circle. I went to his Midtown hedge fund office. I pushed open the glass door to his corner office. Madison was straddling him, tongue-deep. Clothes half off. Her silk blouse unbuttoned to her waist. “Bad timing.” I stepped back. Calm. Madison scrambled to button up. Her pencil skirt was bunched around her knees. She glared at me. “Nobody taught you to knock before entering the CEO’s office?” Alex said nothing. Just flicked her a glance. He straightened his Hermès tie. Slow. Smirk curling. “What, finally decided to come find me?” He slapped Madison’s backside. “Sweetheart, go grab a latte from Blue Bottle downstairs. I need to talk to my wife.” Madison shot me a venomous look. Slammed the door on her way out. “Miss me?” Alex leaned back. “Told you. Just a little tantrum. Give you two weeks and you cool off. How about that place with the three-month waiting list tonight?” “I want a divorce.” His hands stilled on his cufflinks. Eyes narrowed. “Say that again.” “I want a divorce.” He burst out laughing. “Evelyn, is this your new move? Using divorce to get my attention?” He reached for my face. “I know I’ve been neglecting you. Tell you what. Next week I’ll clear my schedule. We’ll go to St. Barts.” I stepped back from his touch. His smile froze. I pulled the divorce papers from my bag. Held them out. He didn’t take them. I set them on his mahogany desk. “I’m not joking. I’m done wasting my time with you. It’s all laid out. Asset division is clear under the prenup and the postnup. Sign when you’re done reading.” Alex stared at the document. His pupils shrank. He dropped into his chair. Flipped a few pages. Then ripped the papers in half. “Divorce? Over my dead body.” I rubbed my temples. “What’s the point? Divorced, nobody cares how many girlfriends you fly to the Hamptons.” “Evelyn.” His voice softened. “We’ve been together since law school. When my father cut off my trust fund, you were there in that tiny Brooklyn apartment.” “Everyone else is just a fling. I never once thought about leaving you.” He rounded the desk. Bespoke suit. The cologne mixed with the stench of what he’d just done. My stomach turned. How noble it sounded. He’s the one who brought his mistress into our home. Left me with a 104-degree fever to fly his side piece to the Hamptons for her birthday. Stabbed me in the heart over and over with his promises. Strip it all down. He wasn’t scared of losing me. He was scared of his perfect image cracking in front of the Wall Street elite. He needed an Ivy League wife as a front. A prop to keep up the respectable businessman act.

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