Chapter 1

The spoon hit the pot with a quiet tap, breaking the stillness around her. It was such a small sound, gentle and hidden, like a heartbeat afraid to speak.

Zoe stood barefoot on the cold tiles, one hand slowly stirring the sauce, the other holding a glass of wine she'd barely touched. Outside, the city flickered beyond the tall windows, its lights smeared across the glass like paint that never dried. There was a time when that glow felt comforting, like a warm hand on her back. But now it only pressed in on her, loud and restless, like a thought that wouldn't leave her alone.

Nina Simone's voice drifted from the speaker on the counter, low and aching, the way only she could sound, like someone singing through a wound.

This used to be her hour. That quiet little pocket at the end of a long day, when the world finally slowed down enough for her to catch her breath again. He'd walk in, drop his keys in the bowl by the door, loosen his tie, and press a soft kiss to her cheek. And for a while, ten minutes maybe, it almost felt like they still belonged to each other.

But tonight wasn't one of those nights.

"Hey," Ethan said, somewhere behind her. His voice was rough, stretched thin by too many hours.

She didn't turn. "You're late."

"Investor call went long."

She felt him step closer, knew it before she felt his hand settle on her waist. The touch wasn't warm. Just muscle memory. His mouth brushed her neck the way it always had, only softer now. Like a ghost of itself.

"You smell like basil and wine," he said against her skin.

"And you smell like deadlines," she said, eyes fixed on the sauce.

He gave a quiet laugh, let his chin rest on her shoulder. For a second, it almost felt like old times. Almost.

Her mouth twitched, half a smile that didn't last. "Dinner's ready."

They sat across from each other at the table, plates sitting untouched between them. Two people sharing the same space. Not lovers. Not even friends anymore, if they ever truly were. Just... two people with a past that refused to let go.

He forked up a bite, chewed. "Pasta's good."

She nodded, shifted the noodles around her plate. "How was your day?"

He launched right in, numbers, calls, new clients, old clients. His eyes sparked when he talked about the pitch that landed. They hadn't sparked for her in a long time.

She listened. Chewed slow. Made small sounds when it felt right. Something in her chest pulled tight.

"I landed a new account today," she said after a while. Voice low and careful. She almost didn't say it at all.

He didn't hear her at first. His phone vibrated on the table, and he glanced down, thumbs flying over the screen, tapping out replies with that focused frown he always wore.

"I said I landed a national campaign today," she tried again.

He looked up, like he'd forgotten she was there. "That's great, Zo. One sec." His eyes dropped back to his screen.

Of course. One sec.

She set her fork down, the metal quiet on the plate. "Ethan?"

"Yeah?"

"When was the last time we made love?"

He blinked at her, as if he hadn't heard right. "Um... was it last week?"

She shook her head. "No. That was just sex."

His forehead creased. "What are you talking about?"

She looked at him then, really looked. "I mean the last time you touched me like I mattered. The last time you saw me."

Her words didn't raise their voice. They didn't need to. They cut just fine on their own.

He just stared. The silence that followed felt so heavy she could almost drown in it.

"Where's this coming from?" he asked, his voice low with confusion.

She pushed her chair back, slow, careful. Walked to the sideboard, picked up an envelope that had waited too long to be handed over.

"Zoe..." His tone changed. He knew that envelope. Or what it meant.

She turned, held it in both hands like something fragile. "These are the papers."

He half-stood. "Papers?"

"I signed them."

"What are you talking about?" He stepped closer, too late. "Zoe, wait, what the hell is this?"

"I'm tired, Ethan." Her voice didn't crack. "Tired of holding this all by myself. Tired of crying in the shower because that's the only place left that's mine."

"Don't do this." He sounded younger suddenly and lost. "We can fix this."

"Where were you when I needed you?" she asked. She wasn't yelling. She didn't need to. "I begged you, in all the ways I knew how. But you were never there."

"I worked my ass off for us," he snapped. "I gave you everything."

She looked at him, soft and hard at the same time. "Everything but you."

He flinched like she'd hit him.

"You're really doing this?"

She stepped forward, set the envelope on the table between their plates. There it was. Heavy as a stone.

He didn't touch it.

"I didn't know you were this unhappy," he said, voice low, eyes on his hands.

"That's the point. You never asked." She felt her throat tighten but her feet stayed planted. "I got tired of being invisible in my own house."

"I can fix it," he said again, the edge of panic showing now. "I'll quit. We'll get help, therapy, whatever you want."

"Why did it take this for you to see me?" she asked.

He didn't have an answer.

She stood there for a moment, staring at him, then turned and walked toward the bedroom. Her feet felt heavy but steady. She stopped at the door.

"Don't follow me. Not tonight."

He didn't move. She closed the door softly behind her.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she let the quiet wrap around her, heavy and unbroken. Her eyes found a photo on the dresser, Paris. Their honeymoon. Her laughing so hard she'd nearly dropped her ice cream. Him looking at her like she was his whole world.

She remembered that girl. She missed her.

She missed the man in the photo too.

But he hadn't come home in a long time.

When morning came, it found her awake. Sunlight spilled across the bed like a soft apology for the night. She got up, showered and dressed. Made her coffee. The envelope was still on the table.

She left it there.

When she stepped out into the hallway, her phone vibrated in her hand.

A massage from: Ethan Carter

Subject: You were right. I wasn't there. But I'm not done trying.

She read it once, closed her eyes, let the steam from her mug curl around her face.

But she didn't reply.