I continued to play the fool.

I remained steadfastly devoted to Silas, pretending I couldn't smell the lingering gardenia perfume on his collar, pretending I hadn't seen the carefully cropped photos Serena posted on her Instagram stories—a familiar watch face resting on a coffee table, the sleeve of Silas's signature Tom Ford suit.

To the world, they were subtle; but to me, they were glaringly obvious.

I would stare at her posts until the screen dimmed, then carefully tap the little heart icon to like them.

I said nothing. I worked hard to keep the surface of our marriage as calm and reflective as a frozen lake, but beneath the ice, dark currents swirled, brewing a devastating storm.

However, things were changing.

I officially resigned from the art gallery. Nova finally came home from the vet, bringing a lively, joyful energy to the otherwise quiet apartment.

I also started writing in my diary again.

I bought a thick, leather-bound notebook and wrote in it every day. I recorded the trivial details of daily life, as well as the painful, rapid deterioration of my body.

Sleep became a luxury. The dull ache in my abdomen was constant.

I still cooked for Silas every day, but when I sat at the granite counter with my own plate, the smell of the food made my stomach violently revolt.

I went back to Queens one last time. We sat in my mother's living room and had the exact same fifteen-minute polite conversation.

While she went to make tea, I slipped a debit card—with the PIN taped to the back—into a novel on her coffee table. It held almost my entire life savings.

When I was leaving, she walked me to the front porch. Her eyes lingered on my pale face a second longer than usual. "Take care of yourself, Nina," she said.

"Thank you, you too," I replied.

My mother would be fine. She hadn't loved my father, and she had never really known how to love me, but she had fulfilled her duty. She raised me.

My father eventually went bankrupt, his fund wiped out in a massive scandal, which felt like poetic justice.

My mother, however, had found peace. She married a good man, had a son, and built the family she had always wanted.

I was just a ghost from a painful past she had moved on from.

Silas came home early, a rare occurrence.

We hadn't sat down together for a meal in weeks.

Since Serena returned, his "late-night meetings" had multiplied exponentially.

He cut his chicken with methodical precision. I managed two bites of asparagus before the nausea hit. The familiar abdominal pain flared up again.

Sensing my discomfort, Nova trotted out from the hallway and sat under my chair.

I gently set my fork down with a soft clink. Silas glanced up at me. "I'm going to feed Nova," I murmured, and quickly stood up.

I hurried to the spare bedroom I had converted into Nova's room. I poured some premium kibble into his ceramic bowl, and the little dog happily dug in, his tail thumping against the baseboard. Watching him, I felt a fleeting sense of peace.

Then, the abdominal pain spiked sharply, so severe it stole my breath. A thick, metallic taste surged up my throat.

I clamped both hands tightly over my mouth. When I pulled them away, my palms were slick with dark red blood.

Nova stopped eating. He whipped his head around, let out a terrified whimper, and began pawing at my knees.

Trembling, I grabbed a handful of tissues from the nightstand, wiped the blood from my mouth and hands, and buried the crumpled, blood-soaked wads deep in the trash can.

I slumped to the floor, pulling Nova into a tight hug and burying my face in his fur.

"I'm okay, buddy. I'm fine," I rasped.

He didn't believe me. He refused to eat anymore, instead frantically licking my chin.

A sharp knock on the door startled me.

Silas stood there, leaning against the wooden frame. "Come finish your dinner, Nina," he said softly.

I forced myself back to the table and choked down the food as if I were swallowing sawdust and ashes. When I couldn't stomach another bite, Silas took the plates to the kitchen to load the dishwasher.

When he returned, I was sitting on the plush rug in the living room, tossing a plush toy for Nova. Silas sat on the sofa behind me.

"Nina," he began, his voice soft. "I know I've been incredibly busy lately. Once this quarter ends, I'll clear my schedule. We'll go to that tropical island. Just the two of us. How does that sound?"

I kept my eyes fixed on the dog, scratching behind his ears. "Okay."

A trip to a tropical island had been at the top of my bucket list for years.

We never had a honeymoon; we just signed the papers and went back to work the next day.

As our relationship deepened, I had begged him to take me away for a belated honeymoon. But the CEO of Vance Capital could never find the time. The trip was always pushed to the next quarter, or the next year.

And now, it was his turn to bring it up. I could feel his gaze resting on the back of my neck, heavy and expectant. I pretended not to notice.

"There's a charity gala next Wednesday night," he added casually. "Are you free? I'd like you to come with me."

My hand froze in Nova's fur. I took a slow breath, trying to keep my voice entirely devoid of emotion. "I can't go. I won't."

Silas didn't push it. He just nodded.

I stared blankly at Nova.

During her years in Paris, Serena had all but disappeared from New York's social circles. A high society gala was the perfect opportunity for her to rebuild her network. There was no way she would miss it.

If she batted her eyelashes and asked Silas to escort her, he absolutely wouldn't refuse.

He just didn't expect that I would show up anyway.

The ballroom at the Pierre Hotel was the epitome of luxury.

I stood in the darkest corner near an exit draped in velvet curtains, lingering on the edges like a ghost.

It didn't take long to find Silas. I had loved him for ten years; tracking him with my eyes was practically an instinct. He stood near the center of the room, impeccably handsome in a tailored black tuxedo.

Serena was nestled against his arm, radiating like a blooming rose in a deep V-neck ruby silk gown.

They navigated the crowd, every gesture exuding power and beauty. They laughed at the right jokes, won over the right investors, and carried themselves with the effortless grace of magazine cover models.

I knew this was going to happen. My prediction had been completely accurate.

And yet, witnessing it with my own eyes was soul-crushing.

My heart pounded violently, the rhythm erratic. Panic and sorrow wrapped around my chest like invisible vines, squeezing tighter and tighter until I couldn't breathe.

But I didn't scream, and I didn't storm over to throw a drink in her face. I just stood there, leaning against a marble pillar, watching my husband parade his mistress around town.

Suddenly, a venture capitalist we both knew walked up to Silas. He clapped Silas on the shoulder, laughed, and pointed directly at the corner where I was standing.

Silas turned his head.

I hadn't dressed up; I was just wearing a simple, dark trench coat.

I hadn't looked in a mirror for weeks because I was terrified of seeing my sunken cheeks, protruding collarbones, and sickly, ashen complexion, all of which made me look more like a corpse than a twenty-six-year-old woman.

I knew he recognized me. The color instantly drained from his face.

Across the brilliantly lit ballroom, our eyes met. I didn't cry, and I didn't frown. I just looked at him, my face entirely blank.

I saw his jaw clench. I saw him break away from Serena's grip.

He took a step toward me, trying to push his way through the bustling crowd of socialites, panic written all over his face.

Just as he headed my way, a complex smile curled onto my lips.

And then I turned and walked out.