My husband is the biggest pop star in the country. And I am his private nutritionist, his personal assistant, and his twenty-four-hour emotional anchor. For six years, our marriage has been a well-kept secret. I haven’t held a traditional job a single day since we wed, yet my life is more exhausting than any corporate grind. Dylan has a stomach so delicate it might as well be made of tissue paper. His list of dietary restrictions is longer than I am tall; I have to inspect every single ingredient eight times before it ever touches a pan. If a single negative comment appears under his new music videos, I am the one who stays up all night drafting comforting, thousand-word reassurances to patch up his fragile ego. He also suffers from severe separation anxiety. If I go downstairs to grab a delivery and take longer than ten minutes, my phone explodes with frantic calls—sometimes nine times in a single minute. And whenever I mention visiting my parents back in Boston, he suddenly develops phantom chest pains. This was my life. Until his first love, Kelly, returned to the country. The moment her plane touched down, she posted on Instagram: "Funny how the universe always brings you back to where you started." I was so thrilled I almost sent her a flower arrangement. But just as I was about to slip my passport and ID into my bag and plan my exit, my phone rang. "Em, Kelly wants to meet up tonight. You’re coming with me." My hand trembled slightly. "Are you serious, Dylan? I’m literally preparing to vacate the house for you two, and you still want me to play the supportive background crew one last time?" 1 Dylan’s voice came through the receiver, carrying that familiar, entitled laziness that used to make my heart flutter but now just made me tired. I was holding a micro-scale, carefully measuring out his vitamin powder for tomorrow. Hearing his demand, my hand didn't even wobble. The white powder fell into the small packet, landing precisely at the 0.1-gram mark. "Sure. Send me the time and place." My voice was flat, as indifferent as if I were asking him whether he wanted roasted broccoli or asparagus with his dinner. There was a sudden, heavy silence on the other end. By the rules of the last six years, Dylan expected a jealous interrogation. He expected a tearful, hurt silence. After all, I was his emotional caretaker. Playing along with his moods and displaying a fierce, possessive love was my unwritten, full-time job. But tonight, he was out of luck. On the bedroom floor, my suitcase sat open. My passport and birth certificate were already tucked quietly into the inner zipper pocket. I wasn't jealous. Honestly, I wanted to send a grand floral display to whatever restaurant they were meeting at, wishing them a lifetime of marital bliss. It took a full ten seconds before Dylan spoke again, his tone uncharacteristically stiff. "Seven o'clock. The rooftop restaurant overlooking the skyline in West Hollywood. Drive me." "Got it." I hung up, sealed the packets, and sorted them into the daily organizer. Thirty neat little compartments. Enough to last him a month. Once that was finished, I went to his walk-in closet to select his clothes for the evening. As a chart-topping artist, Dylan’s wardrobe was larger than most boutique stores. But I could navigate it with my eyes closed, easily avoiding any synthetic fabrics that might irritate his sensitive skin. I pulled out a bespoke black wool suit paired with a soft, anti-static organic cotton undershirt. It was his signature look for important nights. At six o'clock sharp, I pulled the car into the VIP parking garage beneath his agency's building. Dylan opened the passenger door and slid in, bringing with him a faint scent of lavender disinfectant. He was a notorious germaphobe; everywhere he went had to be sanitized beforehand. I glanced at him, and my chest tightened slightly. He wasn't wearing the bespoke suit I had prepared. Instead, he wore a slightly faded, oversized cream cable-knit sweater. I knew that sweater. It was the one Kelly had bought him with her very first paycheck back when they were struggling college students. For six years, it had been kept at the very bottom of his cedar chest. He had never let me touch it, let alone wash it. Tonight, he had unearthed it. He was wearing it to go see the woman who gave it to him. I turned my eyes back to the road, shifted into drive, and pressed the accelerator. "Nothing to say?" Dylan leaned back against the leather seat, his fingers absentmindedly tapping the armrest—a telltale nervous tic he only displayed when he was anxious or highly expectant. "About what?" I asked, keeping my eyes on the red light ahead. "For starters, why I'm wearing this." He tilted his head, watching my profile with a sharp, probing intensity. I offered a small, polite smile, giving him exactly what he wanted. "Why are you wearing it?" Suddenly, he looked annoyed, like a child who had set a trap only to step in it himself. He snapped his head toward the window. "Just felt like it. The suit you picked was too stiff. My stomach is acting up anyway." The classic move. Whenever he felt guilty or wanted to avoid a real conversation, he weaponized his health. In the past, I would have immediately pulled over, fished a bottle of warm water and his medication from my bag, and blamed myself for not being attentive enough. But tonight, I just gave a quiet murmur of assent. "Then try to eat something bland tonight." Dylan clearly hadn't expected such a cold response. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The car fell into a suffocating, heavy silence. It wasn't until we neared the restaurant that he spoke again, a touch of irritation creeping into his voice. "Emily, did you forget my mints today?" Without taking my eyes off the road, my right hand reached into the console, pulled out a small silver tin, and slid it toward him. "Sugar-free. Peppermint." He took the tin. His fingers brushed against the back of my hand, and he flinched as if he'd been burned, pulling away quickly. The metal tin rattled loudly in his grip. "She called me because she wanted to clear up some misunderstandings about why she left for Europe back then," Dylan said, his voice muffled as he popped a mint into his mouth. "Mm. It's good to get closure." I turned the wheel, steering the car into the restaurant’s valet lane. "Aren't you worried we'll end up getting back together?" Dylan’s voice suddenly spiked, sharp with an almost irrational defensiveness. I brought the car to a smooth stop and turned off the ignition. Then, I turned my head to look at him directly. "Dylan, if you want to get back together, that’s your choice. My only job tonight is to make sure you don't eat something that puts you in the ER, because you have a studio session tomorrow morning." I pushed my door open and stepped out into the cool evening air. I didn't look back, and I didn't stay to watch the shock on his face. For the first time in six years, I didn't walk around to open his door like an obedient shadow. Because I knew his golden girl was already waiting for him upstairs. 2 The restaurant sat on the top floor, wrapped in floor-to-ceiling glass that offered a sweeping view of the sprawling city lights. When I pushed open the door to the private dining room, I saw Kelly sitting by the window. Unlike the grainy paparazzi photos from the airport, she was even more striking in person—delicate, pale, and carrying an air of fragile elegance. She wore a champagne-colored silk slip dress, her dark hair pinned up loosely. As we walked in, she stood up. Her eyes bypassed me entirely, landing squarely on Dylan. "Dylan. You came." Her voice was soft, laced with a faint, trembling emotion. Then her gaze drifted down, catching on the faded cable-knit sweater he wore. A flash of pure triumph and satisfaction gleamed in her eyes. "You... you kept it." Dylan didn't say a word. I watched his throat tighten as he swallowed. He walked stiffly to the table and pulled out a chair, but he didn't sit immediately. I stepped forward, pulled a pack of medical-grade sanitizing wipes from my purse, and began to thoroughly clean his utensils, the edge of the table, and the armrests of his chair. It was a routine we had performed a thousand times. In the quiet room, the only sound was the damp friction of the wipe against the wood. Kelly watched me, a faint, amused smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "And you must be Emily?" She deliberately avoided calling me his wife. Of course she did. In the six years we had been married, no one outside of Dylan’s core management team knew about our relationship. To the rest of the world, I was just a highly paid personal assistant and nutritionist. I tossed the used wipe into the small bin and gave her a polite nod. "Nice to meet you, Kelly. Emily is fine." Dylan finally sat down in the chair I had prepared. He gestured to the empty seat beside him, indicating I should sit, but Kelly had already slid the digital menu toward him. "Dylan, I ordered a few of the things we used to get back in college. See if there's anything else you want to add." "Things they used to eat." I stood beside him, my eyes scanning the screen. Spicy jalapeño-infused tacos. Raw oysters on the half-shell with hot sauce. And a heavy, garlic-laden ribeye. My temples began to throb. Dylan’s stomach was practically raw from years of chronic ulcers. Forget heavy spices and raw seafood; even a slightly fibrous vegetable could keep him awake in agony all night. If he ate this, I’d be calling an ambulance before midnight. I reached out to tap the screen to remove the items, but Dylan’s hand shot out, catching my wrist. His palm was cold and slick with a fine sweat. "Leave it. It’s fine." I looked at him, incredulous. "Dylan, are you insane? You know you can't digest any of this." My voice was sharper than intended, echoing slightly in the quiet room. Dylan frowned, pulling his hand away from mine. "A little bit won't kill me, Emily." Kelly let out a soft, melodic laugh. "Oh, Emily, don't be so uptight. Dylan used to eat everything back in the day. Men get so suffocated when they're kept on such a short leash, you know?" Her words were like a soft needle, aimed directly at my nerves. Right. I was the one keeping him on a leash. Not the woman who sat up with him through the night, rubbing his back while he vomited bile, dry-heaving in pain. That was me. I looked at Dylan. He didn't defend me. Instead, he picked up his glass of ice water and took a long sip. "Emily, don't make a scene." That single sentence cleanly severed the very last thread of my patience. Fine. Eat it. Die of a perforated ulcer for all I care. I pushed the tablet back to the center of the table, pulled out the chair next to him, and sat down without another word. The food arrived quickly. The smell of chili oil and heavy garlic filled the air. Kelly used her fork to place a piece of the spicy chicken onto Dylan’s plate. "Try this, Dylan. It tastes exactly like that little diner we used to sneak into after late-night rehearsals." Dylan stared at the heavily spiced meat, his throat dry. I could see his knuckles turning white where he gripped his fork under the table. He picked up his fork, lifted the chicken, and brought it to his lips. But just before it touched his mouth, he abruptly dropped the fork, clutching his stomach. "Excuse me. I need to use the restroom." His face was ghostly pale as he scraped his chair back and hurried out of the private room. The door clicked shut, leaving only Kelly and me. Kelly casually slurped an oyster, her previous display of tender concern completely vanishing. "So, Emily," she said, dabbing her lips with a linen napkin. "I hear you've been taking care of Dylan for six years now." "I get paid to do a job," I replied, taking a sip of lukewarm water. Kelly gave a dismissive laugh. "At least you have some self-awareness. I was worried you'd actually started to fancy yourself as something more than a glorified maid." I raised my eyes to meet hers. "If you have something to say, Kelly, just say it." She leaned back, crossing her arms. "I saw his medical file. His stomach isn't nearly as bad as you make it out to be. You've been exaggerating his illness to keep him dependent on you, haven't you? Some sick form of control." I froze. Control? I had spent six years researching gut health, boiling bone broths, and counting nutritional macros down to the milligram. I had carved vegetables into intricate shapes just to coax him into eating a single bite when his appetite failed. And now, it was a sick lie I had spun to control him? "Who told you I was exaggerating?" I asked, my voice dangerously quiet. Kelly smirked, her eyes gleaming with the triumph of a victor. "Who do you think? Dylan told me himself. He said he’s been suffocated for years. He said you're like a shadow he can't shake off, breathing down his neck every time he wants a glass of water. Emily, let him go. You stole six years of his life. It’s time to give him back." I sat in silence, watching her. Somewhere deep inside my chest, something vital cracked wide open. A cold, bitter wind rushed in, making me shiver. But I didn't cry. I just realized that there was absolutely no reason for me to finish this dinner. 3 I stood up, grabbing my coat from the back of the chair. "Since you understand him so well, Kelly, I’ll leave the rest of the evening to you." Without waiting for her reply, I turned and walked out of the room. The air in the hallway was cool and quiet. I walked toward the restrooms, not to find Dylan, but to splash some cold water on my face and clear my head. As I passed the lounge area outside the men's room, I heard his voice and stopped. Dylan was leaning against the tiled wall, one hand pressed hard against his abdomen, the other holding his phone to his ear. He looked terribly pale, beads of cold sweat clinging to his forehead. "Yeah... I know, Frank. I didn't eat it," he muttered, his breath hitching slightly. "Don't send a car. It's fine." He was talking to his manager, Frank. Because besides me, Frank was the only one who knew how severe his condition actually was. My legs twitched. Instinctively, I wanted to step forward and support him. Six years of habit don't disappear in an instant. But before I could take a step, his next words anchored me to the spot. "Frank, just don't bother Emily about it. She’s been in a terrible mood lately, and Kelly finally just got back. I don't want Emily ruining the night." I slowly drew my foot back. I stepped backward into the shadows. So, I was the one who ruined things. He was willing to endure agonizing pain just to keep Kelly happy, and I wasn't even allowed to know because my very presence would spoil their reunion. I turned and walked straight toward the elevators. When I stepped out of the building, the night air hit me, cold and damp, but it was nothing compared to the chill in my bones. I pulled out my phone and sent Dylan a text: "I'm not feeling well, so I'm taking a cab home. Call your driver when you're done." I immediately muted my phone and shoved it deep into my pocket. By the time I unlocked the door to our downtown penthouse, it was past nine. The apartment was dead silent. In the entryway sat the limited-edition sneakers I had spent months sourcing for him. On the living room coffee table lay the sheet music he had been working on yesterday. Every corner of this home was saturated with Dylan. I walked over to the coffee table and picked up the pages. The top sheet was a handwritten draft for his upcoming album’s lead single. It was titled "Back to Santiagot". Yesterday, he had playfully hidden it from me, claiming it was a surprise. Now I knew who the surprise was actually for. The very first line read: "You crossed half the world to put my missing pieces back together." I had grown up in New England. I had never even left the country. I laid the sheet music back down exactly as I found it. Then I walked into the bedroom and pulled my suitcase out from under the bed. I didn't have much. For six years, my entire life had revolved around Dylan. Ninety percent of the closet belonged to him. The vanity was lined with the designer colognes he endorsed. I only packed a few changes of clothes, my laptop, and my documents. Finally, I sat down at the desk and opened a black leather-bound journal. It was my "Care and Feeding of Dylan" guide, compiled over six years. It detailed his allergies, the exact temperature he preferred his tea, the acoustic tracks that helped him sleep, and the precise circular motions needed to soothe his stomach when his ulcers flared. I picked up a pen and wrote one final note on the last page: "Don't let him drink ice water on an empty stomach. Don't let him wear synthetic blends. And if he pretends to be sick, just let him." I closed the journal and placed it on top of our cohabitation and secret marriage agreement—the papers we signed but never legally registered with the city to protect his rising career. I had convinced myself it was for his own good, willingly becoming a ghost in his life. I gripped the handle of my suitcase and took one last look at the place I had called home. I felt absolutely nothing. As I reached the front door to put on my shoes, the electronic lock chimed. The door swung open, and Dylan stood there. He was leaning heavily against the frame, his face as white as paper, his damp hair clinging to his forehead. He froze when he saw me holding the suitcase. "Emily..." his voice was incredibly hoarse, barely a whisper. "What are you doing with a suitcase at this hour?" He didn't ask why I had left the restaurant early. He didn't explain what happened with Kelly. He just stared at my bag, his brow furrowing deeply. "I'm leaving, Dylan," I said quietly. "Leaving?" He repeated the word as if it were a foreign language. "Where? To your parents'?" Instinctively, his hand flew to his chest—his old, reliable trick. "Emily, my chest hurts. Stop playing games, okay?" I looked at his slightly hunched posture. Just yesterday, I would have panicked, frantically searching for his medication. Now, it just felt pathetic. "You can stop acting, Dylan. I’ve seen your latest scan. Your heart is perfectly healthy. When I say I'm leaving, I mean I'm resigning. I’m done being your nutritionist, your assistant, and your therapist. I’m done." 4 Dylan’s hand froze against his chest. He looked up at me, a sudden, sharp panic flashing through his dark eyes. "Resigning? Emily, what the hell are you talking about?" He straightened his posture, his pale face flushing with a familiar, demanding irritation. "Just because I didn't stop Kelly from ordering those things tonight? Or because of the sweater? I told you, she just got back. I didn't want to make a scene. Do you really have to be this petty?" I looked at him, finding it almost funny. "Petty?" "Dylan, let’s be clear. I'm not being petty. I’m just done caring." I gripped my suitcase tighter and tried to step past him. But he quickly took a step over, blocking the doorway. His tall frame completely cut off the light from the hallway. "I'm not letting you leave," he said, his jaw tightening with a stubborn, desperate edge. "You signed a non-disclosure agreement, Emily. You think you can just walk out?" "My lawyer will contact yours. I’ll pay whatever termination fee is required." I looked up, meeting his gaze without flinching. "Now, move." Dylan stared at me, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He seemed to be searching my face for any sign that I was bluffing, trying to find the familiar girl who always gave in. But he found nothing. He let out a cold, bitter laugh and stepped aside. "Fine. Go." "But mark my words, Emily. If you walk out that door tonight, I won't let you back in. Even if you beg me on your knees, we are done." He thought that threat would anchor me to the spot, just like it always had. But he was wrong. I rolled my suitcase past him and stepped out into the hallway without a single backward glance. As the heavy door clicked shut behind me, the sound of glass shattering echoed from inside the apartment, followed by his muffled, hysterical scream: "Go then! Both of you, just go!" I walked into the elevator and pressed the button for the lobby. Looking at my reflection in the polished metal doors, my eyes weren't red, and my face was calm. For the first time in six years, I felt like I could finally breathe. I spent the night at a standard highway motel. I turned off my phone and slept through the night without a single frantic call waking me up. When I finally turned my phone back on the next afternoon, it was flooded with missed calls and messages from Frank, Dylan’s manager. I ignored them all and opened Instagram. The top trending topic was practically burning up the feed. "#DylanNewSingle #BackToSantiagot" I clicked the link. It was a short audio teaser. A gentle acoustic guitar intro, followed by Dylan’s deep, soulful voice singing: "You crossed half the world to put my missing pieces back together." The comments were going wild. "Oh my god, this is totally about his first love! It has to be!" "Kelly just got back and he drops this? It’s basically a public confession!" "True love always finds a way. I’m crying!" I scrolled through the comments, my thumb moving rhythmically across the screen. There was no sharp pain in my chest, only the quiet relief of a lingering question finally answered. I closed the app and booked a one-way ticket to Astoria, Oregon. It was a quiet, damp coastal town where nobody knew who Dylan was. Right before I boarded my flight, a text from Kelly popped up on my screen. "Emily, I assume you’ll be attending Dylan’s release party tonight as part of his staff? I had a dress prepared for you. Don't be late." Attached was a digital invitation to the VIP gala. I stared at the screen and laughed out loud. She couldn't wait to mark her territory and put me in my place. If I didn't show up, she’d assume I ran away in defeat. And if I wanted a clean break, I needed to make sure it was absolute. I typed back a single word: "Sure." At eight that evening, I arrived at the glittering venue wearing my usual jeans and a simple white button-down shirt. Kelly had indeed left a dress for me at the front desk. It was a cheap, poorly fitted imitation of the high-end champagne silk gown she was wearing. She wanted everyone to see the difference between the original and the knockoff. But I had no intention of playing her game. My casual attire immediately drew whispers as I walked into the ballroom. Amidst the sea of tuxedos and designer gowns, I stood out like a sore thumb. Kelly was at the center of the room, holding a glass of champagne and surrounded by a circle of admirers. When she saw me, a flash of irritation crossed her face, quickly replaced by a polished, patronizing smile as she walked over. "Emily, why didn't you wear the dress I sent? Was it a bit too tight for you?" Her voice was just loud enough to carry to the surrounding guests. Before I could answer, the double doors of the ballroom swung open. The crowd parted instantly. Dylan walked in, flanked by security. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit, his face pale but his expression incredibly cold. The moment he entered, his eyes swept the room like a radar. Then, bypassing everyone else, his gaze locked onto me. Kelly’s eyes lit up. She lifted the train of her dress and glided toward him like a proud swan. "Dylan, you're finally here—" Dylan didn't even look at her. He didn't even slow down. He walked straight past her, his steps hurried, almost frantic, heading directly toward where I stood. The room grew quiet. Everyone’s eyes darted between Dylan, Kelly, and me. I stood ground, watching him approach.
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