1 At two in the morning, insomnia kept me awake in the blue glare of my phone. I was mindlessly scrolling when an Instagram Reel caught my eye. The account belonged to Serena Ross, an old friend and frequent creative collaborator of my husband, Grant. The title was bold and cleanly typeset across the thumbnail: The 100-Day Marriage Experiment: Can a Chronic Bachelorette Fall for Domestic Life? The cover photo showed Serena curled up on my living room sofa, cradling my cat against her chest. My thumb hesitated, then dragged down the feed. Day 1: Hearing someone casually call me “wifey” over morning coffee. Heart rate: dangerously high. Day 30: Wandering the grocery aisles together, pushing a single cart. Who knew domesticity felt this grounding? Day 65: Had our first scripted spat, followed by the sweetest reconciliation. So this is what it feels like to be chosen unconditionally. In every single post, Grant was right beside her. I looked over at the empty space on the mattress next to me. Grant had been away on three separate "business trips" this past month, each time claiming his startup’s latest funding round was demanding every waking hour. The caption beneath the latest photo read: “Huge gratitude to a certain someone for lending me his husband card for this journey. Proving that even someone allergic to commitment can taste what real warmth feels like. Only 13 days left. Savoring every second.” I set the phone down on the nightstand. Reaching over, I unlocked Grant’s iPad, which was synced to our home cloud, and opened his Notes app. A pinned checklist sat at the very top: Production Schedule: Serena’s 100-Day Experiment. Beneath it was a meticulously organized calendar. Day 88: Candlelight dinner. Studio reshoot for mock wedding anniversary album. I didn't read any further. Closing the app, I opened my messages and texted my family law attorney. “Please draft a divorce petition.” My attorney responded within minutes. “Nora, do you have specific preferences regarding asset division?” I typed back without a second thought: “Separate pre-marital assets remain separate. Marital property split fifty-fifty under state law. I keep the cat.” Just then, the front door clicked open. Grant stepped inside, a boutique pastry bag dangling from his fingers. The soft light of the entryway caught the signature pastel-pink ribbon. “Still awake?” he asked, surprised. I locked my screen. “Waiting for you.” His steps faltered for a fraction of a second before he placed the bag on the dining table. I recognized the bakery immediately. During our first year of marriage, I had stood in the rain for nearly two hours to get him their signature chestnut tart. He took a single bite, murmured that it was cloying, and left it on the counter. I had never stepped foot in that bakery again. Grant kicked off his oxfords, his tone effortless and casual. “Serena barely touched it during our shoot wrap. She insisted I bring it back. Thought you might want a midnight snack.” I watched him loosen his tie. “What were you shooting tonight?” “The ‘bringing dessert home to your husband after work’ beat.” He caught my steady gaze and paused, finally registering the silence in the room. “You saw her posts?” “I did.” “Nora, it’s just content.” Grant unbuttoned his cuffs, his voice entirely unbothered. “Her media agency is pitching an unscripted series about modern marriage. A staunch bachelorette trying out domesticity makes for strong engagement metrics. I owed her a favor for connecting me with our seed investors years ago. It’s just a hundred-day promotional run.” “So calling her your wife, picking out produce together, taking mock wedding anniversary photos—that’s all just professional courtesy?” “The pet names are scripted dialogue. The grocery store was a location scout. The photos are promotional assets.” He walked over to the bed, reaching out to rest his palm against the nape of my neck. He gave it that familiar, gentle squeeze he always used whenever he thought I needed calming down. “Nora, you’re the woman on my marriage certificate. Why get worked up over theater?” His skin was warm, familiar, and steady. For the first time in five years, I didn't lean into his touch. I pulled back. “Why kept it from me, then?” Grant went quiet for a beat, his hand falling away into the empty air. “Because I knew you’d spiral.” “So lying by omission was an act of mercy?” “It saved us an entirely pointless argument.” He spoke with absolute conviction, as if my boundaries were simply logistical hurdles he had smartly routed around. My eyes fell to the collar of his crisp white shirt. A faint dusting of silver glitter clung to the fabric just beneath his collarbone. In Serena’s post from tonight, she had been wearing a sleeveless dress completely encrusted in silver sequins. “There are thirteen days left,” I said quietly. “You’re seeing it through?” “The production signed brand sponsors. We can’t pull the plug halfway through delivery.” “And if I tell you I can’t tolerate this?” Grant’s brow furrowed. “Nora, let’s not blur the line between professional obligations and our personal life. Serena did us a massive service back when no venture capitalist would look at my deck. Without her, Mercer Group wouldn’t exist. She asked for my help on this pilot, and I’m not the kind of man who burns bridges the second he finds success. It’s thirteen days. Be reasonable.” Be reasonable. When my mother was dying in hospice, Grant was in London closing a bridge loan; I had been reasonable, telling him not to fly back because his pitch was too important. During the startup’s first brutal two years, when payroll was three days from defaulting, I sold the commercial storefront my mother had left me to inject liquidity into his accounts, and I never once held it over his head. I used to believe that being understanding and undemanding earned devotion. Only now did I realize that being easy to accommodate only taught a man that my boundaries could be pushed back indefinitely. Seeing my silence, Grant assumed the storm had passed. He turned to the table and untied the pink ribbon. “Have a piece. Serena said the chestnut flavor was subtle; she thought you’d like it.” “I don’t eat another woman’s leftovers.” His hand froze over the box. “Nobody is asking you to eat scraps. She took a single forkful.” “Then you should have left it with her.” Grant stared at me for several long seconds, the warmth draining entirely from his expression. “What has gotten into you lately?” I didn't answer. Before he could press further, his phone lit up on the nightstand. Serena’s name flashed across the display. Grant answered it immediately, his sharp tone softening into an easy cadence. “Made it home safely?” I couldn't hear what she said on the other end, but Grant cast a quick, assessing glance at me before turning toward the hallway leading to his study. “No, she’s not upset,” I heard him murmur just before the door clicked shut. “You know Nora. She’s always understanding.” I looked down at the screen in my lap. My attorney had sent over the intake checklist. The final line read: Please compile any supporting documentation regarding the irreconcilable breakdown of the marital relationship. 2 The following morning, Grant slid an embossed envelope across the marble kitchen island. “Company gala this Friday,” he said. “I need you by my side.” I glanced at the gold foil lettering. “Is Serena attending?” Grant picked up his black coffee, an expression of tired forbearance washing over his features. “Her agency is handling our media relations for the event. Nora, stop looking for her shadow behind every corner.” I didn't bother pointing out the obvious. His synced notes for Day 90 had read: Accompany husband to corporate anniversary; experience the prestige of being introduced as the woman behind the CEO. “Fine,” I said calmly. “I’ll go.” A visible wave of relief smoothed the lines around his eyes. He leaned across the counter, adjusting the lapel of my cardigan with practiced domesticity. “Keep your outfit understated,” he added softly. “Serena’s crew will be capturing live b-roll for the show, so try to stay out of the primary camera sightlines.” I looked straight into his eyes. “In what capacity am I attending, Grant?” “An early-stage angel advisor.” “Not your wife?” He set his mug down with a dull click. “The campaign wraps in less than two weeks. There’s no reason to break immersion for the audience and disrupt the narrative arc. Once the series airs and concludes, I’ll have Serena release a formal statement clarifying the arrangement.” So that was his compromise: asking me to become a ghost inside my own marriage so another woman could play my role in front of a camera crew. On Friday evening, the Grand Ballroom was alive with crystal chandeliers and ambient jazz. When I stepped inside, Serena was already standing beside Grant, linked at his arm, giving an on-camera interview to a tech lifestyle outlet. She wore an ivory silk gown, her hair swept up in a loose French twist. Dangling from her earlobes were a pair of South Sea pearl drop earrings. They were the exact ones Grant had given me for our fourth anniversary. Noticing my arrival, Serena reached up, lightly touching the pearl at her ear before excusing herself and walking over with a radiant, polished smile. “Nora, you made it,” she whispered, leaning in as if we were confidantes sharing a secret. “Grant lent me the jewelry for the evening. He said the luster complemented the ivory silk perfectly.” I turned my gaze to Grant, who had followed a step behind her. “Where did you find those?” “Your dressing table,” he said under his breath, his tone flat and warning. “It’s just for the night. Don’t make a scene in front of the press.” Serena immediately unhooked the left earring, holding it out in her palm. “If it bothers you, Nora, I can take them off right now. We already got the establishing shots anyway.” She took off one. The other remained nestled in her hair. A few senior board members had already turned their heads in our direction, sensing the shift in air. Grant reached out, gently closing Serena’s fingers back over the pearl. “Keep it on.” Then he subtly shifted his shoulder to block the nearest telephoto lens, his voice dropping low. “Our primary venture partners are here, Nora. Don’t do this.” I let out a soft, dry laugh. “Did I say anything?” Grant looked momentarily caught off guard. Serena reattached the earring with a delicate flick of her wrist. “Nora really has the best temperament,” she murmured sweetly. “No wonder Grant always says being married to you is completely stress-free.” Stress-free. A wife so undemanding that her husband could casually loan out her personal anniversary gifts to another woman for a vanity project. When the presentations began, Grant was called to the main stage. Serena sat prominently at Table One, right in front of the podium. My seat was tucked away at the far corner of Table Three, marked with a small card that read: Nora Linden, Special Creative Consultant. The master of ceremonies smiled warmly into the microphone. “Mr. Mercer, over these five years of scaling Mercer Group into an industry leader, who is the one person you owe the deepest gratitude to?” Grant’s gaze swept across the ballroom. Despite knowing better, my fingers tightened around the linen napkin in my lap. A foolish, instinctual part of me held its breath. “Serena Ross,” Grant said steadily into the microphone. “If she hadn't hand-delivered my deck to our first institutional investor five years ago, Mercer Group wouldn't be standing on this stage tonight.” Rapturous applause broke out across the hall. The stage spotlights swung directly onto Serena. Her eyes shone with glossy emotion as she raised two hands to form a small, photogenic heart toward the stage. At my table, an associate whispered, “They look incredible together.” Another guest chuckled softly. “Haven't you seen her online series? They’re doing that marriage trial thing. At this rate, who’s to say it won't turn into the real thing?” I sat quietly, sipping my ice water, offering neither confirmation nor correction. As the gala wound down, an older investor who had worked with my design agency in the past caught up to me near the exit. “Mrs. Mercer, why were you seated so far back tonight?” Before I could speak, Grant appeared at my shoulder. “Arthur, during the promotional filming window, we’re keeping Nora’s connection low-profile to protect the media narrative.” Arthur’s smile tightened with mild embarrassment. “Ah. Understood. My apologies.” Serena strolled over, seamlessly tucking her hand into the crook of Grant’s elbow. “It’s completely fine! Tonight I’m the trial wife, but Nora is the unsung hero behind the curtain.” Grant didn't shake her arm off. Instead, he looked at me and said, “The driver is waiting downstairs to take you home. We still have two pickup shots to film on the terrace.” I looked at the pearl gleaming beneath Serena’s hair. “Make sure those earrings end up back on my dresser tonight.” Serena’s smile never wavered. “Of course, Nora. I wouldn't dream of keeping what belongs to you.” I turned toward the exit. Behind me, the production director’s voice carried over the lingering crowd. “Grant, lean in closer to her waist, please. Yeah, just like that—give us that protective look from the anniversary scene.” Through the polished glass reflection of the foyer doors, I saw Grant’s hand settle slowly, comfortably, against Serena’s waist. 3 The earrings did not come home that night. What arrived the next morning was a text message from Serena. “Nora, I’m so mortified—one of the pearls must have slipped off the clasp when I took an Uber home. Grant already promised to buy you a replacement set from the flagship store. Please don’t be upset with him!” I sent back two words: “Don’t bother.” They were limited-edition vintage drops, nearly impossible to source again, but their financial value had never been the point. What was gone was gone. That afternoon, I drove to the commercial property my mother had left me years ago. After I sold it to bail out Grant’s company, the space had changed hands twice before being converted into a boutique veterinary clinic. Mochi was a stray kitten I had found shivering in the alley behind that very building seven years ago. When my mother underwent round after round of chemotherapy, Mochi had stayed curled against my chest through every sleepless night. Grant knew better than anyone that there were very few things in this world I was fiercely protective of. My cat was at the top of that short list. When I unlocked the apartment door later that day, the living room felt hollow. The felt cat bed near the sunny window was empty. I checked every room, the pantry, and under the sofas before dialing Grant’s cell. “Where is Mochi?” “Serena took him for the day,” Grant answered immediately, the background noise of a busy set buzzing through the receiver. “Today’s script covers raising a pet together. Her own ragdoll came down with an ear infection, and Mochi has always been docile. We just needed him for a few shots.” My hand gripped the phone until my knuckles turned white. “Give me the studio address.” “Nora, we’re in the middle of a setup—” “Give me the address, Grant. Right now.” There was a two-second pause on the line. “Soundstage 4, Westside Media Center. You can come, but please don’t disrupt the crew.” When I arrived at the studio, Mochi was perched atop a high, polished wooden display table. A crew member was aggressively waving a feather wand inches from his face to force him to look at the camera. The continuous burst of studio strobes filled the room with blinding flashes. Mochi was crouched low to the table, his belly pressed flat against the wood, his tail clamped tightly between his hind legs—terrified. Serena, wearing a mock bridal veil, scooped him up into her arms and pressed her cheek against his fur. “And this is our little family portrait,” she beamed at the lens. Blinded and panicked, Mochi lashed out wildly. His claws caught the soft skin on the back of Serena’s hand. Serena let out a sharp cry and dropped her arms. Mochi hit the hardwood floor with a heavy thud, scrambling frantically toward the shadowed gap behind the modular set walls. I took a step forward just as a heavy, weighted backdrop panel wobbled and tore loose from its clamp. “Mochi!” I lunged across the floor, but Grant had already moved—stepping instinctively in front of Serena, pulling her against his chest to shield her from the falling timber. The heavy panel smashed onto the stage floor with a deafening crash. A second later, Mochi dragged himself out from the wreckage, whimpering softly, dragging his left hind leg across the concrete as he squeezed into a corner. I scooped him into my arms. My fingers instantly found a wet, warm slick of blood matting the fur near his hip. Only then did Grant step over. “Is he badly hurt?” “Get out of my way.” “Nora, take a breath. Serena’s hand is bleeding too.” Serena stood behind him with reddened eyes, clutching her wrist. “It’s fine, really... It’s my fault. I shouldn't have picked him up when he was startled.” “It’s not your fault,” Grant said, pulling a clean handkerchief from his pocket and firmly pressing it against the shallow scratch on her hand. “Animals are unpredictable. Nobody could have foreseen that.” I looked up at him, my voice freezing cold. “You knew he’s terrified of strobe flashes.” Grant’s jaw tightened slightly. “I assumed after living with us for five years, he’d be used to camera flashes.” He reached down, intending to take Mochi from my arms. “I’ll have my assistant drive him to the animal hospital down the street. The brand sponsors are on set right now. Let us finish these last two takes, and I’ll meet you at the clinic.” I pulled away, completely out of his reach. “He isn't a prop, Grant.” His brow slammed down. “Nobody treated him like a prop! Serena got scratched and she hasn't said a single resentful word about your cat. Why do you constantly have to turn everything into an attack on her?” Mochi let out a weak, agonizing cry against my collarbone. Looking at the man I had lived with for five years, the urge to argue evaporated entirely. At the emergency animal hospital, the radiographs showed a displaced fracture in his pelvis and hind leg. He needed immediate orthopedic surgery. Grant finally showed up at one in the morning. He walked into the recovery waiting room, dropping an itemized invoice on the small table beside me. “Surgery is paid for. The surgeon confirmed there won't be any long-term mobility issues.” I stared straight ahead at the white wall. “Serena wrapped her shoot, so you finally found the time to come by?” Grant’s throat moved as he swallowed. “There were twenty-five crew members on the clock, Nora. You don't shut down an entire production schedule for a cat.” I turned to look at him. “What if it had been Serena pinned under that board?” “That’s entirely different.” The response was instantaneous. Reflexive. Realizing how cold it sounded, he softened his tone: “A human being isn't an animal, Nora.” “You’re right,” I said quietly. “It’s completely different.” I picked up the invoice, tore the paper cleanly down the center, and placed both halves back into his open palm. “I’ll wire the veterinary costs to your account tomorrow.” Grant caught my wrist, his grip firm and controlling. “Do we really need to keep an itemized ledger on our own marriage?” “Didn't you start the ledger first?” I pulled my arm back, meeting his eyes. “Serena handed your pitch deck to an investor once, so you owe her a hundred days of your life as a husband. By that math, Grant, how many lifetimes do you owe me for everything I gave up for you?” His fingers went rigid. Before he could find an answer, his phone chimed on the table between us. Grant didn't pick it up, but the preview banner lit up the dark screen clearly: “Grant, don’t be late for our wedding rehearsal tomorrow morning. I wrote your vows for you—you’re going to love them.” 4 Grant let his hand drop from my wrist. “It’s not a real ceremony,” he said, his voice dropping into that familiar, soothing register. “It’s just the final set piece of the pilot.” “I know. It’s an experiment.” He studied my face intently, searching for the familiar sparks of anger, tears, or jealousy. There was nothing. Just an immense, impenetrable quiet. My composure seemed to unsettle him more than an outburst would have. He lowered his voice, sounding almost tender. “The final days will fly by. Once this wraps, I’ll clear my schedule. We’ll take Mochi and rent that beach house in Carmel you’ve been talking about for a month.” He stepped closer. “Go home and get some sleep. I’ll have my assistant come by in the morning to sit with Mochi while he recovers from the anesthesia.” “No need.” He sighed, irritation creeping back around the edges. “Nora, don’t punish your own health just to spite me.” “Grant,” I said, looking him in the eye. “What day is tomorrow?” The sterile waiting room went dead silent for several seconds. He pulled out his phone, his thumb tapping the screen to check the calendar widget. The moment the display glowed against his face, I already knew the answer. “The series finale rehearsal,” he said. A faint, tired smile touched my lips. “Right. Go get some rest. You have a big shoot.” He had completely forgotten that tomorrow was our fifth wedding anniversary. The following morning, my attorney couriered the formal marital settlement agreement and divorce petition to my home. I signed my name on every designated line, placed the documents in an envelope, and used a same-day courier service to deliver them directly to Grant’s executive suite. Thirty minutes later, my phone rang. “What is the meaning of this, Nora?” His voice was a tight, suppressed hiss through the receiver. “A divorce agreement.” “Over Mochi getting hurt?” He lowered his voice, though the sharp edge remained. “I already apologized. I paid the best surgeon in the city. You cannot threaten me with a divorce every time you feel neglected.” Five years of marriage, and this was the very first time the word divorce had ever crossed my lips. Yet he spoke as if he were already exhausted by a habit that existed only in his imagination. “Just sign the papers, Grant.” “I’m not signing.” “Then my lawyer will file a contested petition with the court.” The line went dead silent for a long moment. Then, Grant let out a low, confident chuckle. “You won't do it. You love this life too much to walk away.” I didn't argue with him. He was right about the past. I had loved him—loved the five years we built together, loved the home we designed room by room, loved the man who had held me on the hospital floor after my mother died and promised I would never have to face the world alone. But that man had drifted so far into the distance that I couldn't even recognize his outline anymore. That afternoon, while I was checking on Mochi at the clinic, a courier dropped off a package addressed to our household. Inside was an ivory-linen presentation booklet stamped with silver foil: Commemorative Keepsake: The 100-Day Marriage of Grant Mercer & Serena Ross. The production assistant must have mixed up the delivery routing. I opened the first page. “In sickness and in health, in abundance and in want, I choose to stand beside you.” The words hit me like cold water. They were the exact vows Grant had spoken to me on our wedding day—the ones he had written himself on a scrap of hotel stationery, completely ignoring the officiant’s standard script. I turned the pages. Every single milestone of their "trial marriage" was documented with glossy photography and romantic commentary. Their first home-cooked breakfast. Their playful bickering in the cereal aisle. The night he brought her hot tea and medicine when she had a fever. Every scenario felt hauntingly familiar. Because every single one was a carbon copy of a memory from our five years together. Grant had taken the intimate blueprint of our entire relationship, extracted the sweetest, most cinematic pieces, and handed them to another woman to perform for an audience. On the final page, Serena had written a closing note in flowing ink: “Grant told me that this is what marriage has always looked like to him. He said that once you know the steps, following the routine with someone else doesn't really feel any different.” I stared at those words for a very long time. It wasn't that Serena had stolen my marriage. Grant had willingly rented it out. To him, love was merely a repeatable sequence of domestic chores, and a wife was simply an interchangeable actor who could be swapped out as long as she hit the marks. The veterinary technician tapped on the glass. “Ms. Lin, your finger is bleeding.” I looked down. The sharp edge of the linen paper had sliced cleanly into my thumb. I closed the book, pulled out my phone, and texted my attorney: “File the lawsuit immediately. No further mediation.” After settling Mochi into his recovery suite, I drove straight to the historic downtown chapel where the production was filming. The courtyard was lined with towering arrangements of white delphiniums and roses. A large display easel at the entrance announced: The 100th Day: Will the Bachelorette Say ‘I Do’? A production coordinator stepped in front of me with a clipboard. “Excuse me, ma'am, they’re running the master rehearsal inside. Family members have to wait in the holding area.” I handed her the linen keepsake book. “Please hand this directly to Mr. Mercer.” At that moment, the double doors of the sanctuary swung open. Serena stood on the raised altar in a bespoke ivory silk wedding dress. It was my wedding dress. Sewn along the left waistline was a delicate, handcrafted silk camellia—the final piece of embroidery my mother had hand-stitched into the fabric before she passed away. Grant stood directly opposite Serena, his head bowed as he adjusted the sheer tulle of her veil. When his eyes caught mine through the open doorway, his expression cracked. “Nora? What are you doing here?” I walked down the center aisle, my heels clicking sharply against the stone floor. “Who gave you permission to take my wedding dress?” Serena gathered the heavy silk train in her hands, stepping forward with a placating smile. “I just thought off-the-rack bridal gowns felt so sterile for the finale. I wanted to wear a dress that had actually experienced real marital happiness. It was just sitting in your garment bag gathering dust—surely you’re not going to be petty about a piece of fabric, Nora?” I reached out and touched the camellia at her waist. The delicate silk petals had been sliced and hastily resewn with crude machine stitching. They had altered the bodice to accommodate her smaller frame. Grant caught my wrist. “I’ll pay the top couture restoration house in the city to fix it the second we wrap.” “You can’t fix this.” “It’s just a dress, Nora.” Just a dress. Just my cat. Just my anniversary. Just my marriage. The director called out from behind the monitor banks, “Grant, the brand executives just arrived in the front row! Let's get the master vow take in the can while the light is hitting the stained glass!” Grant looked at me, his grip tightening. “Give me ten minutes. Wait in the back.” I reached up with my free hand, slipped the platinum wedding band off my left ring finger, and dropped it squarely into the breast pocket of his tuxedo. “Don't bother.” He was so focused on the cue from the floor manager that he barely registered the weight dropping into his pocket. The stage lights flared to full brightness. The acoustic guitar track began to swell through the sound system. Serena turned back toward him, glowing beneath the soft-focus lenses. The actor playing the officiant stepped up to the podium, his voice booming through the chapel: “Grant Mercer, do you take Serena Ross to conclude this journey of shared domesticity, promising to honor and protect the bond you’ve built, whether she chooses marriage or independence in the days ahead?” Grant looked toward the heavy oak doors at the back of the chapel, his eyes searching the empty aisle where I had just stood. A two-second silence stretched awkwardly across the set. Then, he leaned into his lavalier microphone. “I do.” Outside on the stone steps, my attorney was already dialing his office to confirm the formal service of process. And as the heavy elevator doors slid shut in the parking garage below, the giant live-feed monitors across the soundstage suddenly cut to black.
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