Chapter 2

Candace's POV

"You're home. You smell... different." I stood up from the couch, my legs numb from sitting so long.

"Emergency at work." His words slurred together. "Big project. Ivy and I had to..." He waved his hand vaguely. "Had to fix things."

"At 2 AM? Logan, I was worried sick—"

"It's handled now." He brushed past me toward the bedroom.

"I made soup. Let me heat it up for you."

"Don't want it."

"You need to eat something—"

"I said I don't want it!" He spun around, and I stepped back automatically. "Jesus, Candace. I've been working all night. The last thing I need is you nagging me."

"I'm not nagging. I'm trying to take care of you."

"Well, don't." He pressed his fingers to his temples. "I'm going to bed."

"Logan—" I reached for his arm.

He shook me off. "I'm tired. We'll talk tomorrow."

It became a pattern. Three nights that week, he didn't come home until after midnight. Always the same excuse: emergency at work, project with Ivy, client crisis.

Always Ivy.

By Friday, I'd stopped heating up soup. Stopped waiting on the couch. I'd go to bed and lie there in the dark, listening for his key in the door.

"You're always working late now," I said on Saturday morning, keeping my voice careful and measured. "The wedding is only five weeks away. Can you maybe cut back on the overtime?"

Logan looked up from his laptop, clearly annoyed. "You don't understand business, Candace. This is a critical time for the company."

"But—"

"Ivy doesn't complain." He turned back to his screen. "She's there whenever I need her, putting in the hours, making things happen. She gets it."

"I just thought—"

"What? That I should slack off because we're getting married?" His voice turned sharp, cutting. "You think success just happens? Someone has to work for it. Ivy works for it. She's committed."

"I'm committed too. I gave up my job for you—"

"And what do you even do all day?" He slammed his laptop shut. "Plan flowers? Pick out napkins? That's not work, Candace. That's playing house."

My throat closed up. Hot tears pressed behind my eyes, but I refused to let them fall.

"Ivy is out there fighting in the real world. Building something. Contributing." He stood up and grabbed his jacket. "You want to help? Stop complaining about my hours."

"Where are you going? It's Saturday—"

"Office. Some of us have actual responsibilities."

The door slammed behind him, and I stood there in our apartment, surrounded by wedding magazines and color swatches and seating charts for a marriage that was crumbling before it even began.

My phone buzzed. A text from Ava: You ok? Want to get brunch?

I stared at it, then at the closed door, then at the wedding invitation mock-up still sitting on the coffee table.

Mr. and Mrs. Logan Gibson...

That night, he came home at 2:30 AM.

I'd fallen asleep on the couch with the wedding planner open on my lap. The sound of the door woke me.

"Logan." I sat up, still groggy. "It's so late."

"Had to finish the presentation." He didn't look at me. Just headed straight for the bedroom.

"I saved you dinner. Let me just heat it up—"

"I already ate."

"With Ivy?"

He stopped walking. Turned around. "What?"

"Did you eat with Ivy?"

"We grabbed something while we worked. So what?"

So what. So what. Like it means nothing.

"I just..." My voice came out small and weak. "I miss you. We barely see each other anymore, and when we do, you're talking about her—"

"Oh my god." He threw his hands up. "Are you seriously jealous of my secretary?"

"I'm not..." But I was. I absolutely was. "I just think we should spend more time together. Before the wedding..."

"The wedding I'm working my ass off to pay for?" His eyes were cold now. "The wedding you wanted?"

"We both wanted it..."

"No, Candace. You wanted it. I wanted to wait. Build the business first. But you kept pushing, and now you're mad that I'm actually working?"

I felt the words punch through me.

"That's not fair," I whispered. "I've been supporting you for seven years—"

"By doing what? Sitting at home?" He laughed, and it was bitter and cruel. "At least Ivy brings something to the table. She's smart, driven, ambitious."

Each word carved something out of me.

"I'm going to bed." He turned away again. "Try not to wait up tomorrow. Ivy and I have another late night."

He walked into our bedroom and closed the door, leaving me standing there with cold dinner and this feeling in my chest that everything was falling apart.

I sank back onto the couch and stared at nothing.

Ava had tried to warn me. The signs had been everywhere. But I'd been so sure, so confident in our seven years together.

He wouldn't do that to me, I'd said. He's not that kind of person.

That night, I didn't sleep. I lay in bed next to Logan, listening to him breathe, and felt like a stranger in my own life.

The next three days blurred together. Logan came home past midnight or not at all. When he was there, he barely looked at me.

On the fourth night, he actually came home early.

I was in the kitchen when I heard his key in the door. My heart jumped. Maybe we can talk. Maybe he'll stay.

"Hey." I turned around with a smile I didn't feel. "I made your favorite pasta—"

His phone lit up on the counter between us. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

Logan's face changed. That look I'd seen so many times lately, alert, almost excited. He grabbed the phone and his fingers flew across the screen.

"I have to go." He was already turning toward the door.

"What? You just got here—"

"Emergency at work." He didn't even look at me. "Big client issue. Ivy needs me."

Ivy needs me.

"Logan, please. Can't it wait? We haven't had dinner together in—"

"Candy, this is important." His hand was on the doorknob. "I'll be back later."

"How much later?"

"I don't know. Don't wait up."

The door slammed.

I stood there, staring at the pasta I'd spent an hour making, and something inside me snapped. No. No more waiting. No more believing. No more being the idiot.

I grabbed my car keys.

My hands shook on the steering wheel as I followed his taillights through the city. This is crazy, a voice in my head whispered. You're being paranoid. He's going to the office. You're going to feel so stupid when you see him pull into the parking garage—

But he didn't turn toward his office.

He drove to a residential neighborhood I'd never seen before.

Maybe he's meeting a client. Maybe there's a reasonable explanation.

I kept my distance, heart hammering so hard I could hear it over the engine.

His car slowed and stopped in front of a modest apartment complex.

I pulled over half a block away, killed my headlights, and watched.