I stared at my phone, the blue light illuminating my face in the darkness of our bedroom. Damian's gentle snores filled the room as I scrolled through his messages for the third time tonight. Sleep had become my enemy lately, replaced by this new ritual of doubt and surveillance. I hated what I'd become—this suspicious, anxious version of myself who checked her husband's phone while he slept.

My thumb froze mid-scroll. There it was again. That name. Sage Harper.

The intern. The twenty-four-year-old who'd started at Damian's company three months ago. The woman he'd been giving rides to work because her car was 'in the shop.' For twelve weeks straight.

I tapped on their conversation thread, my stomach clenching as new messages appeared that hadn't been there yesterday. Photos. My breath caught in my throat as I opened the first one.

Sage Harper, with her perfect blonde waves and crimson lips, sitting in the driver's seat of my BMW. My car. The one I'd saved for three years to buy. Her manicured fingers caressed the steering wheel as she pouted at the camera.

'Loving the feel of luxury,' the caption read. 'Thanks for letting me try it out, D.'

I swiped to the next photo. Sage reclined in the passenger seat, her blouse unbuttoned one button too many, her legs crossed to reveal a dangerous amount of thigh. 'Room for two in here... or maybe more?'

My hands trembled so violently I nearly dropped the phone. The shower was still running in our en-suite bathroom. Damian would be out soon. With shaking fingers, I took screenshots of everything, sending them to my own phone before carefully returning to his home screen.

I slipped his phone back onto the nightstand and retreated to my side of the bed, clutching my own device to my chest like a shield. The bathroom door opened, releasing a cloud of steam as Damian emerged, a towel wrapped around his waist.

'You're still up?' he asked, raising an eyebrow as he moved to his dresser.

I sat up, gathering my courage. 'I need to talk to you about something.'

He pulled on a pair of boxers, his back to me. 'Can it wait until morning? I'm beat.'

'No,' I said, my voice stronger than I expected. 'It can't.'

I turned my phone toward him, displaying the first screenshot. 'Care to explain why your intern is taking provocative photos in my car?'

Damian's face transformed before my eyes. The warm, familiar features of my husband of five years hardened into something cold and defensive. He didn't even look at the screen properly.

'Jesus, Celeste. Are you spying on me now?' He ran a hand through his damp hair. 'She was just being friendly about the car. You're overreacting.'

'Friendly?' I zoomed in on her caption. 'This is friendly to you?'

'She's young. That's just how people her age talk.' He turned away, dismissing me as he pulled on a t-shirt.

'You let her into my car without asking me.' My voice was barely a whisper now.

'Our car,' he corrected sharply. 'And it's not a big deal. Why are you making this into something it's not?'

I stared at him, this stranger wearing my husband's face. Three years ago, this man had given me his blood when I hemorrhaged after Mila's birth. He had sat by my hospital bed for three days straight, holding our newborn daughter in one arm and my hand in the other.

Now, he couldn't even look me in the eye.

Something broke inside me then—a final thread of hope I hadn't even realized I was clinging to. I got out of bed, walked to my closet, and pulled out my suitcase.

'What are you doing?' Damian asked, irritation edging his voice.

Instead of answering, I picked up my phone and opened our family group chat—the one with his parents, my parents, our siblings. My thumbs moved with decisive clarity as I typed: 'I'm filing for divorce from Damian. Please don't try to change my mind.' I tagged him directly, then hit send.

The notification ping on his phone was immediate. He grabbed it, his face paling as he read the message.

Within seconds, my phone was ringing. Damian's name flashed on the screen. I looked up to find him glaring at me from across the room, his phone pressed to his ear.

I answered.

'WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?' he roared, his voice coming at me in stereo—both through the phone and across our bedroom. 'Airing our dirty laundry to my family? Are you insane?'

I ended the call and set my phone down. 'I think that answers my question,' I said quietly, turning back to my packing.

The craft room had become my sanctuary—a small space tucked behind the kitchen where I used to make scrapbooks of Mila's milestones and birthday decorations. Now it served a different purpose entirely.

I sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor, surrounded by sheets of colored paper in soft pastels—the same colors I'd chosen for our wedding. My fingers moved with practiced precision, folding each sheet into a perfect five-pointed star. Crease, fold, tuck. The rhythm was meditative, almost hypnotic.

Each star represented a moment. A betrayal. A broken promise.

I picked up a pale blue sheet—the color of Damian's eyes on our wedding day—and began folding as I remembered our first fight about Sage. How he'd dismissed my concerns about her riding in my car. How he'd called me paranoid when I showed him her provocative photos.

"You're imagining things," he'd said, not even looking up from his laptop. "She's just being friendly."

Fold. Crease. Tuck.

Another star joined the growing collection in the glass mason jar beside me. The jar that had once held wildflowers from our honeymoon in Tuscany now held something far more bitter.

A soft pink star for the morning he'd snapped at me for asking why he was leaving for work an hour early. "I'm picking up Sage. Her car's still in the shop," he'd said, grabbing his keys without kissing me goodbye—a ritual we'd maintained for five years until three months ago.

"But the shop is in the opposite direction from our house," I'd pointed out gently. "Wouldn't it make more sense for her to take an Uber?"

His jaw had tightened. "She needs the support. She's new to the company, Celeste. Try to be more understanding."

Understanding. As if I was the unreasonable one for questioning why my husband was going twenty minutes out of his way to chauffeur another woman.

I folded another star—yellow this time, like the sundress I'd worn last week when he'd come home late again, his shirt wrinkled and smelling faintly of perfume that wasn't mine.

"Traffic was horrible," he'd lied, not meeting my eyes. "Had to drop Sage off last since she lives further out."

But I'd driven past her apartment complex the next day. It was fifteen minutes closer to his office than our house. He was dropping me off last, not her. Making me the afterthought in my own marriage.

The stars multiplied in the jar like fallen wishes. Each one a small death, a moment when the man I'd married revealed himself to be someone else entirely.

A lavender star for the evening he'd defended her when I mentioned seeing them laughing together in the company parking lot. "She's funny, Celeste. God forbid I enjoy a conversation with a colleague."

A mint green star for the night he'd worked late—again—and I'd called the office only to have security tell me the building had been empty for hours.

A coral star for the morning I'd found a bobby pin in his car that wasn't mine. "Must have fallen out of your hair," he'd said, even though I hadn't worn bobby pins in years.

My phone buzzed against the hardwood floor. A text from Damian: "Working late again tonight. Don't wait up."

I set the phone aside and reached for another sheet of paper. This one was silver—metallic and cold, like his voice had become when he spoke to me lately.

The craft room door creaked open, and I looked up to see Mila's sleepy face peering around the corner. Her dark curls were mussed from her afternoon nap, and she clutched her stuffed elephant, Patches, against her chest.

"Mommy? What are you making?"

I forced a smile, quickly sliding the jar behind me. "Just some decorations, sweetheart. Did you sleep well?"

She nodded, padding over to me in her sock feet. "They're pretty. Like the ones Daddy used to make."

My hands stilled on the paper. "Daddy made stars?"

"At your wedding," she said matter-of-factly, settling beside me. "Grandma Eleanor showed me the pictures. Daddy folded a star and put it in your bouquet. He said it was a promise."

The memory hit me like a physical blow. Our wedding day. Damian's nervous hands folding a single origami star from the program as we waited for photos. "One star for every time I hurt you," he'd whispered, slipping it among the white roses and baby's breath. "And when it reaches a hundred, I'll set you free. But that'll never happen, because I'll never hurt you that much."

I looked down at the jar beside me, counting the delicate paper stars that caught the afternoon light streaming through the window.

Ninety-seven.

Three more, and his promise would be complete.

The perfume hit me the moment I opened the passenger door of Damian's car. Sweet, cloying jasmine with undertones of vanilla—nothing like the light citrus scent I'd worn for years. My stomach dropped as I slid into the seat, the foreign fragrance wrapping around me like an accusation.

"What's that smell?" I asked, trying to keep my voice casual as Damian started the engine.

He glanced at me briefly, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "What smell?"

"The perfume. It's... strong."

"I don't smell anything." His knuckles whitened against the steering wheel as we pulled out of our driveway.

I wanted to believe him. God, how desperately I wanted to believe him. But as we drove toward the company holiday party, that sickly-sweet scent seemed to grow stronger, seeping into my clothes, my hair, my very skin.

The office building sparkled with holiday lights, transforming the usually sterile corporate environment into something almost magical. Almost. I smoothed down my navy dress—conservative, elegant, the kind of outfit a devoted wife wore to her husband's company party. Safe. Forgettable.

We'd barely made it through the lobby when I saw her.

Sage Harper stood near the elevator in a dress that could only be described as liquid fire. The red fabric clung to every curve, the neckline plunging just low enough to be inappropriate for a company function but not quite enough to be called out. Her blonde hair cascaded over one shoulder in perfect waves, and her lips matched her dress exactly.

She turned as we approached, her face lighting up with practiced surprise. "Damian! You made it!" Her voice was honey and silk, designed to draw attention.

"Of course," he replied, and I noticed how his posture straightened, how his voice warmed in a way it hadn't when speaking to me all week.

Sage's eyes flicked to me briefly—a cool assessment that lasted perhaps two seconds before dismissing me entirely. "And you must be Celeste. I've heard so much about you."

I doubted that. "Nice to meet you properly, Sage."

"Oh!" She suddenly pressed her hand to her chest, her eyes widening with theatrical concern. "I just realized—I think I left my perfume in your car yesterday, Damian. I was so scattered after that presentation."

My blood turned to ice. There it was. The explanation delivered with perfect innocence, complete with a reason for her to have been in his car recently.

Damian's face remained carefully neutral. "I didn't notice anything."

"It's my favorite—Jasmine Nights by Chanel. I'm so clumsy sometimes." She laughed, a tinkling sound that made my teeth ache. "Thank you for taking such good care of my things. You're always so thoughtful."

As she spoke, she reached out and touched his arm—not a casual brush, but a deliberate caress that lingered just a moment too long. Her fingers traced the fabric of his suit jacket with an intimacy that made my chest tighten.

"It's nothing," Damian said, but he didn't pull away from her touch.

The elevator arrived with a soft ding, and we rode up in silence. But I could feel the electricity between them, crackling in the confined space like a live wire. Sage stood just close enough to Damian that her perfume—that same jasmine scent—would reach him with every breath.

The party was already in full swing when we arrived. The conference room had been transformed with twinkling lights and elegant decorations, colleagues mingling with drinks in hand. I should have felt festive, celebratory. Instead, I felt like I was watching my marriage dissolve in real time.

Damian guided me to a table near the back, his hand on my lower back—a gesture that once would have made me feel cherished. Now it felt perfunctory, a husband going through the motions.

"I should make the rounds," he said, already scanning the room. "Network a bit."

"Of course," I replied, settling into my chair. "I'll be here."

He kissed my cheek—dry, quick, obligatory—and disappeared into the crowd. Within minutes, I spotted him near the bar with Sage, their heads bent together in conversation. She threw back her head and laughed at something he said, her hand finding his arm again.

I sat alone at our table, watching my husband charm another woman while I became invisible. Colleagues I'd met at previous parties walked past without acknowledgment, their attention drawn to the magnetic pull of Sage's presence across the room.

The music started, and couples began moving to the makeshift dance floor. I watched, my heart sinking, as Sage extended her hand to Damian with a coy smile.

"Dance with me?" she asked, loud enough for nearby colleagues to hear. "I promise I won't step on your toes."

Damian glanced back at me—one quick look that might have been guilt or might have been obligation—before taking her hand. "One dance," he said.

But it wasn't one dance. It was three. Then four. I lost count as I sat frozen in my chair, watching them move together with an ease that spoke of practice, of familiarity. Sage's body molded against his as they swayed to the slow songs, her head resting against his shoulder like she belonged there.

Other wives had joined their husbands on the dance floor. Other couples laughed and talked and celebrated together. I remained at our empty table, a ghost at my own husband's party.

When the music finally ended, Sage made sure to thank Damian loudly enough for half the room to hear.

"You're such an amazing mentor and friend," she gushed, her voice carrying over the applause. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

The words hit me like a slap. Mentor. Friend. The way she said them, with that slight emphasis, that knowing smile—it was a claim. A public declaration of ownership disguised as gratitude.

I reached for my purse with trembling hands, my fingers finding the small packet of origami paper I'd started carrying everywhere. Tonight would make ninety-eight stars.

Two more, and Damian's wedding promise would be complete.