Chapter 1

Three years of marriage, and I never once had a keycard to our penthouse.

Seventeen flights of stairs.

I climbed them on foot, every single day, for three whole years.

It all culminated on that freezing evening. I stood outside the locked lobby door, clutching a birthday cake I'd bought for my husband, Ethan, while my hands and feet went completely numb.

A late-autumn drizzle mixed with sleet, chilling me to the bone.

Shivering, I dialed Ethan's number.

All he said was, "Can't you just take the stairs? Think of it as a workout."

Before I could reply, the line went dead.

Right then, the glass lobby doors slid open from the inside.

It was my adopted sister, Kylie.

She playfully swung a sleek keycard between her fingers, flashing me an innocent smile.

"Hey, Chloe! Mom and Dad asked me to drop something off for Ethan. Locked out again, huh?"

I watched numbly as she stepped outside.

Seconds later, Ethan hurried after her. He handed her an exquisitely wrapped gift box, his handsome face softening with pure adoration.

From start to finish, he didn't spare me a single glance.

When I finally dragged myself up the seventeen flights to the apartment, I asked him why Kylie had a keycard when I didn't.

He clicked his tongue, his face tight with irritation.

"The building management only issued four cards. Mom and Dad have two, I have one. The last one went to Kylie. She drops by all the time—how inconvenient would it be if she didn't have a key?"

A bitter laugh caught in my throat.

Four keycards, and not one for the woman of the house.

After seven years by his side, I was still nothing more than an outsider.

If this home had no room for me, I wasn't going to beg to stay.

By the time I carried the cake into the kitchen, the frosting had already started to melt.

Ethan sat lounging on the sofa, scrolling through his phone without looking up.

"There are some dirty mugs in the sink. Wash them while you're at it."

I set the cake box onto the coffee table with a dull thud.

"Ethan, we've been married for three years."

He lifted his gaze, his sharply cut brows knitting together. "Your point?"

"For three years, I haven't had a keycard. I've climbed seventeen floors every single day. Why does Kylie get one over me?"

His scowl deepened, and he leaned back into the cushions.

"Chloe, what is wrong with you tonight? Making a scene over a piece of plastic—do you have to be so petty?"

"Kylie is your sister, and her health has always been delicate. It's completely natural for your parents and me to look out for her. You're the older one; can't you show some grace for once?"

I stared at him, suddenly finding the whole situation pathetic.

Back in high school, my parents bought Kylie an expensive designer dress, tossing me whatever oversized castoffs she didn't want. The one time I dared to speak up, my mother slapped me with words, calling me an ungrateful brat and making me stand out in the cold hall all night.

Back then, Ethan wiped away my tears, his eyes brimming with heartache.

If they won't love you, I will.

In college, to buy me the pair of running shoes I wanted, he lived on dollar-store bread and canned beans for an entire month.

Back then, the love in his gaze was searing.

Chloe, one day, I swear I'll build us a home. A place that belongs solely to you and me.

Now the home existed, yet I was locked out of it.

Seeing my silence, Ethan stood and stepped closer.

"Kylie gets self-conscious easily. Don't go bringing this up in front of her and making things awkward."

He reached out, trying to ruffle my hair like he used to. Instinctively, I pulled away.

His hand froze in midair. His expression darkened in an instant.

"Chloe, what kind of childish tantrum are you throwing now?"

Right then, his phone buzzed with an incoming FaceTime call from my mother.

Ethan answered. My mother's face appeared on screen. "Ethan, sweetie, happy birthday! Kylie baked your favorite apple pie, and we're just waiting for you to come over and have a slice!"

On the screen, Kylie stepped into the frame wearing the very cashmere sweater Ethan had given me for my last birthday. She flashed a timid, sweet smile.

"Ethan, I'm not the best baker, so please don't tease me if it's too sweet."

Ethan's harsh demeanor melted instantly.

"Anything you make tastes incredible, Kylie."

My mother caught sight of me standing in the background, and the warmth vanished from her face.

"Oh, Chloe's there too? Good, saves me a text. Kylie's graduating soon, and I want her to move into your spare room so you two can look after her."

The blood in my veins ran cold.

Kylie shrank back behind my mother, biting her lip. "Mom, it's fine. I can just stay in the campus dorms. I don't want to be a burden to Chloe..."

My mother's tone snapped instantly. "Chloe, it's just your sister crashing at your place for a while. Why do you always have to hold a grudge over everything?"

Ethan joined in, frowning at me reprovingly. "Mom's right. It's settled."

He hung up, grabbed his car keys from the counter, and turned toward the door.

As he brushed past me, he paused as if suddenly remembering something.

"By the way, toss that cake. I don't like sweets."

The door clicked shut, plunging the luxury apartment back into dead silence.

I looked down at the half-melted cake on the table.

He didn't hate sweets. He just hated anything that came from me.

Years ago, before we graduated, the diner owner Ethan worked for had gifted him a small slice of chocolate cake. He had cradled it inside his coat like a precious treasure, sprinting all the way back to our tiny studio.

Chloe, this is the most delicious thing I've ever tasted. You have to take the first bite.

Tears fell without warning, blurring my sight.

In my pocket, my phone vibrated.

It was an email from my former art director:

Chloe, about the exchange program at our Milan headquarters we talked about—your spot got approved. Have you made up your mind?

My fingers hovered over the screen. I typed: I'm talking it over with my family.

I locked the screen with a self-deprecating smile.

An outsider in my own marriage... who was I supposed to talk it over with?