Chapter 1

On Valentine’s Day, my husband Ethan and I were supposed to see a concert together.

I waited in the freezing wind for three hours before he finally showed up.

Then he snatched the pair of VIP tickets I’d spent two hours in line for and shoved a ticket in the nosebleeds into my hand.

“Chloe gets your VIP floor seat. You can make do up in the nosebleeds.”

I froze.

Ethan spoke as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world.

“Chloe didn’t grow up with much. She’s never even been to a real concert.”

“She wants to see her idol up close, and I already promised her the best seat.”

“So you gave her the ticket I worked so hard to get?” I asked.

Ethan’s expression turned impatient.

“Does it matter where you sit to hear Taylor Swift? I just want her to experience what it’s like on the floor.”

“You’re a grown woman. Why are you picking on a girl?”

With that, he followed Chloe into the arena without looking back.

I glanced at the nosebleed ticket in my hand and tossed it aside.

It fluttered to the ground and was soon ground into the dirty slush under passing shoes.

I was done with the concert.

And I was done with this marriage.

……

Deafening cheers erupted inside the arena as the concert began.

I stood there quietly for a moment, then turned and walked into the Manhattan night.

The February wind was vicious, slipping beneath the collar of my coat.

I didn’t call a car. I walked south down Seventh Avenue alone.

When I passed a liquor store, I went inside and took a small bottle of rosé from the cooler.

The clerk barely looked at me as he scanned the barcode.

I carried the bottle all the way to the riverfront park.

I found a bench facing the water, twisted off the cap, and took a sip.

The slightly bitter wine slid down my throat, making my stomach churn.

My phone vibrated.

It was a text from Ethan.

“Are you inside? Why can’t I find you?”

“Chloe wants a latte. Go get two and bring them over. Make sure they’re hot. Her stomach’s sensitive.”

I stared at the messages, didn’t reply, and turned off the screen.

In his mind, I would always be the maid who came running whenever he called.

Even after handing my VIP ticket to someone else, he still assumed I’d happily run errands for them.

I leaned back against the bench and watched the reflections ripple across the river.

Seven years together. Three years of marriage.

Somewhere along the way, Chloe Miller had come between us.

Ethan said she was a poor kid who had clawed her way into Cornell on scholarships, and that none of it had been easy.

As an alumnus, he felt obligated to look out for her.

He also loved the way her gratitude made him feel important.

At first, I understood. I even helped him buy Chloe professional clothes, gave her a brand-new MacBook Pro, and edited her résumé.

Then I discovered that her closet was full of designer labels and that she upgraded to every new iPhone before I did.

Every last one came from Ethan.

On my thirtieth birthday, Ethan had given me a discounted wool scarf from an outlet store—and hadn’t even bothered to remove the red clearance sticker.

“You’re a married woman. What do you need nice clothes for? We might as well save the money and enroll Chloe in a training course.”

Those had been his exact words.

I finished the last of the rosé, tightened my fingers around the empty bottle, and dropped it into a trash can by the road.

I raised my hand at the curb, and a yellow cab pulled over.

“West 74th Street, Upper West Side, please.”

When I returned to the apartment and opened the door, everything was dark.

I didn’t turn on the lights. Guided by the glow of Manhattan outside the windows, I walked straight to the couch and sat down.

The pot of homemade chicken soup I’d made the previous afternoon was still on the coffee table. It was stone-cold, with a thin layer of grease congealed across the surface.

Two nights earlier, Ethan had complained that his throat felt dry, so I’d gone to Whole Foods, picked out a free-range chicken, and simmered it for four hours.

He hadn’t taken a single sip before rushing out to pick up Chloe.

I stood, carried the entire pot into the kitchen, and dumped everything down the drain.

At one thirty in the morning, the electronic lock beeped.

Ethan walked in trailing Chloe’s perfume—the one she always wore.

He switched on the entryway light and jumped when he saw me sitting on the couch.

“Why are you sitting here in the middle of the night scaring people instead of sleeping?”

He frowned, kicking his dress shoes toward the cabinet as he complained.

“Where were the lattes I told you to bring? Do you know Chloe was thirsty for hours and ended up drinking tap water at the arena?”

I looked at him, my voice even.

“I didn’t go.”

Ethan stopped halfway through taking off his coat.

He looked up, anger creeping into his eyes.

“What’s that supposed to mean? Didn’t you see my texts?”

“I saw them.”

I leaned against the couch, my hands folded over my knees.

“Then why didn’t you go? Claire, your attitude’s getting worse by the day, isn’t it?”

He walked over and stared down at me.

“It was one ticket. Was it really worth sulking at me all night?”

“Chloe’s just a girl. Why are you competing with her? Can’t you act your age?”

Watching him stand there so utterly convinced that he was right, I almost laughed.

“Mature? Maybe not. Fed up? Absolutely. Want to hear about that?”

I gave a humorless laugh.

Ethan paused, then his face darkened.

“Don’t talk like that! What’s wrong with paying for her education and showing her a little of the world?”

“If you feel cheated, I’ll get you tickets to some other concert next time.”

He was always like this—making promises he never intended to keep and brushing me off out of habit.

“Don’t bother.”

I stood and walked past him toward our bedroom.

“I’m moving into the guest room tomorrow.”

Ethan scoffed behind me.

“Do whatever you want. You might as well stay in there forever.”

I didn’t look back. I quietly closed the bedroom door.