Chapter 1

My husband said the signal at sea was too weak to text me back — until his ex posted thirty-one screenshots of their nightly video calls.

***

My husband worked as a communications operator on an oceanic research vessel — and I could never reach him.

Every time he shipped out, he'd say the same thing: signal's unstable at sea, totally normal if it takes three to five days to reply.

I believed that for two whole years.

Until his ex, Molly Fuller, started posting screenshots of their video calls.

Thirty-one calls in a single month. The shortest one — forty minutes.

The image was so crystal clear I could see the deck behind him and the stars in the sky.

I scrolled back through my own chat history.

The longest I'd waited for a reply? Fourteen days.

Two words: Mm-hmm.

After that, I learned my lesson.

No more staying up late, staring at my phone, waiting for the screen to light up.

No more sending long paragraphs about how much I missed him.

My messages shrank from three lines to one: [Stay safe.]

Then two words: [Be well.]

Then just a single period.

And then — nothing at all.

The next time he docked and came home, he frowned at me. "How come you never text me anymore?"

I smiled.

In three days, our divorce hearing was scheduled — and he didn't even know.

···

Declan Reid stood in the doorway, duffel bag still in hand.

I used to change the sheets in advance, drive down to the pier to meet him, even line up his slippers facing outward so he could step right in.

Today I was just sitting at the dining table, sorting through paperwork.

He stared at the thick stack of documents, brow furrowed.

"Izabella. I'm talking to you."

I pressed down on the stapler. A soft click.

"How many days are you staying this time?"

That caught him off guard. His tone softened slightly. "A week. Heading back to the ship next week. Tomorrow night there's a banquet for the crew."

For the past two years, every time he came ashore, he said he was exhausted — walked in the door and collapsed into bed.

But on Molly's Instagram, he was strolling along the pier with her, helping her pick out equipment, staying on video calls until two in the morning.

I kept my head down, organizing files. Said nothing.

Declan set a gift box on the table.

"This is for you. I missed our anniversary — I was at sea. Making up for it."

My fingers froze.

I opened the box.

Inside was a seashell bracelet. The edges were rough, barely sanded down. The tag under it read: 50% off.

Before I could even open my mouth, my phone buzzed.

Molly had posted on Instagram.

In the photo, she stood on the pier, a deep-sea blue pearl necklace around her neck. In the corner of the frame was Declan's sleeve.

[Someone remembers I'm afraid of the dark, so he gave me a piece of the ocean.]

I slid my phone across the table to Declan.

He glanced at it. His expression shifted — then smoothed over just as quickly. "That necklace is a prop for her documentary. She's just borrowing it. Yours is more of an everyday thing — more your style."

I nodded. "Oh. So Molly gets deep-sea blue pearls. I get seashells on discount."

He seemed thrown by that. Before he could respond, his phone rang — a video call, with Molly's name on the screen.

Declan answered almost on instinct.

On camera, Molly was wearing a black windbreaker.

I recognized it. Declan had bought it last year before shipping out. He said the windproofing was top-notch, couldn't go to sea without it.

Molly's voice was hoarse. "Declan, I think I have a fever. The pharmacy's closed and I'm all alone here. I'm kind of scared."

Declan looked at me.

In that one look — I saw the conflict. And the apology of someone who'd already made up his mind.

"Izzy, she just got to port. She doesn't know anyone around here. I'll drop off some medicine. I'll be right back."

I watched him grab his car keys.

"You just got home. We haven't seen each other in months."

He frowned. "Don't be like that. She's sick."

The door closed. The apartment went silent again.

I sat at the dining table and placed the seashell bracelet into a plastic evidence bag. Labeled it.

[Difference in gifts.]

Then I texted Milo Mainse, my lawyer.

[Add one more item.]

Milo replied almost instantly: [Got it.]

Half an hour later, Molly sent me a photo.

A box of medicine. A glass of hot water. Declan's hand on hers.

[You don't mind, right, Izabella?]

I replied: [Not at all.]

After I hit send, I plugged in the voice recorder to charge.

The next evening, Declan sent me a location pin.

[Welcome banquet at seven. Don't be late. My boss and colleagues will all be there. Don't embarrass me.]

I stared at the message, then dropped the voice recorder into my bag.