Chapter 2

"I grew up in a family that made pasta for every celebration," I told him. "You grew up on rice bowls. For eight years I ate whatever you wanted. You couldn't compromise for one birthday dinner?"

Grant's expression went cold. "Love isn't a transaction. I never forced you to give up pasta. You made that choice yourself. Don't turn it into proof I don't love you. Why would I spend eight years with you if I didn't?"

I almost smiled. "You're right. I chose to put you first. Over and over again."

"That's not what I meant." He rubbed his forehead. "It's your birthday. I don't want a fight. Calm down. I'll make it up to you another day."

He went into his office and shut the door. I finished my dinner alone.

On my way to bed, I heard him on the phone with his friend Lewis.

"I had two huge bowls of pasta with Sophie today," Grant complained. "I couldn't face another bite tonight. Claire got upset. Have your wife talk some sense into her."

"Why don't you apologize yourself? Isn't Claire the easiest person in the world to please?"

"I don't have the energy. I promised Sophie we'd play games online tonight."

No energy for the woman who'd loved him for eight years. Plenty for the assistant he'd known six months.

I went to my room and submitted a transfer request to my employer's Chicago office, near where my parents lived. I'd built a life on the East Coast after college. Suddenly all I wanted was to go home.

The next morning I realized an important work document was still in Grant's briefcase. When I entered his office, he and Sophie were sharing takeout pasta at his desk.

He was giving her the best pieces of chicken from his plate.

"You're too good to me," she said brightly.

Grant looked up, startled. "Claire? Why are you here?"

"My document. It's in your bag."

He handed it over, pretending nothing was wrong.

I glanced at his half-empty bowl. "I thought pasta made you sick."

"Claire, please don't misunderstand," Sophie began, immediately looking close to tears. "It's all my fault."

"I wasn't talking to you."

Grant stood up. "Don't make a scene. Sophie, you can go."

As she passed me, I looked down at her black designer stilettos.

I knew those shoes. My best friend, Hannah, had given them to me for my birthday three years ago. They were the first luxury shoes I'd ever owned.

Sophie was walking away in them.