I texted Serena, asking her to meet me at a cafe in SoHo at 10 AM.

I arrived ten minutes early and waited in a velvet booth.

She made me wait for thirty minutes before finally sauntering in, draped in Chanel, looking effortlessly elegant and glamorous.

Ever since my father went bankrupt, Serena had been living off her European ex-husband's wealth. Now that she was divorced and back in New York, my billionaire husband was currently footing her bills.

She slid into the booth across from me, her red lips curling into a sweet, innocent smile.

I, on the other hand, looked like a ghost. I hadn't bothered with concealer; the dark circles under my eyes and my hollow cheeks were on full display.

"Nina! It was such a surprise to get your invite!" she said cheerfully.

We had barely spoken in college, so her suddenly calling me by my first name felt incredibly grating. A waiter approached, and Serena ordered without even glancing at the menu.

"An iced Americano, please," she said smoothly. She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands. "You know, your husband loves iced Americanos. I never liked the bitterness before, but lately, I've really started to love it."

The implication. I knew.

I looked down at the untouched peach iced tea in front of me. Condensation dripped down the side of the glass. I didn't take the bait.

Serena's smile widened; she could taste the thrill of victory.

She was the one who had texted me the day she arrived at JFK. It was a polite but maliciously crafted little text that essentially said: I'm back, and I'm taking him away.

"Speaking of Silas," Serena continued, her voice loud enough for the neighboring tables to hear, "I really need to thank you—"

Splash.

The sound was loud and incredibly satisfying. The entire cafe went dead silent. Heads snapped in our direction.

Serena sat frozen, her face knocked sideways by the impact.

She slowly raised a hand, touching her dripping hair. I had taken the large glass of sticky peach iced tea and dumped it directly over her head.

The liquid dripped from her perfectly voluminous blowout, ran down her cheeks, and soaked the collar of her pristine white silk blouse. A soggy slice of lemon and a few chunks of peach were tangled in her hair.

Her non-waterproof mascara was already starting to run.

She looked absolutely pathetic.

She stared at me, her mouth opening and closing like a suffocating fish. "Nina... what the hell are you doing—"

"Serena," I cut her off. "You know exactly what I'm doing."

I leaned across the table, my gaze locked onto hers. "Drop the cheap soap opera act. You came back to New York for Silas. You know he still regrets how things ended, and you want to win him back."

"Right?" I asked casually, leaning back against the velvet cushions.

Her face went deathly pale, but only for a fraction of a second. Then, she let out a breathy little chuckle.

She opened her designer handbag, pulled out a pack of wet wipes, and started dabbing at her ruined blouse. The sweet, innocent mask vanished entirely, replaced by a cold, calculating predator.

"Yes," she said softly, a glint of malice in her eyes. "But Nina, darling, you can't force someone to love you. You can't keep a man who doesn't want to stay."

The masks were off. We had skipped the pleasantries and gone straight to war.

Looking at her ruined makeup, I couldn't help but let out a genuine, visceral laugh.

"You're absolutely right," I said.

"So, Serena, do you want to make a bet?"

She paused, the wet wipe hovering over her collarbone.

"If you win, he's yours," I said easily. "I'll sign the divorce papers and walk away completely. You won't even have to carry the ugly label of 'homewrecker.'"

Serena stared at me, searching for the trap. Finding none, a triumphant smile curled her rosy lips.

"Deal."

A week had passed since my confrontation with Serena at the cafe.

As our fourth wedding anniversary approached, Silas became increasingly clingy, almost to the point of suffocation. He came home early every day. After dinner, he even insisted on putting on his coat to walk Nova in Central Park with me.

Tonight, I was sitting in bed, reading a novel while my diary remained locked in the bottom drawer. Silas climbed into bed and immediately closed the distance between us, pulling me tightly into his arms.

I rested my head against his chest, feeling the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart. He rested his chin on the top of my head, looking down at the pages of my book.

It was a trashy domestic drama. The cheating husband was defending his mistress, and the wife had just slapped the other woman, screaming, "I'm his wife!"

I felt Silas's arm tighten around my waist. His whole body went rigid.

I turned the page without reacting. I kept reading as the husband in the book realized his mistake, begged for forgiveness, and ultimately won his wife back for a happy ending.

By the time I finished the chapter, it was past midnight.

The pain in my abdomen was a dull, persistent throbbing; I needed my painkillers. I tried to pull out of his arms to go to the bathroom, but he held me like a vice.

"Silas?" I whispered into the dark.

"Mm," he grunted, his voice thick with sleep.

The bedroom was silent.

"Nina," he murmured, burying his face in the crook of my neck. His voice sounded incredibly fragile, almost like a frightened child. "You never used to call me by my full name. You always called me 'Si.'"

A bitter, cynical laugh rose in my throat.

When we first got married, he never called me Nina either. In front of others, he called me "Ms. Thorne," and when we were alone, he barely spoke to me at all.

We had both changed.

I rolled over to face him, resting my hand on his waist. I smiled into his shadowy silhouette. "Okay, Si."

He stared at me, his eyes tracking every subtle shift in my expression, searching for a crack in my facade. Finding none, he pulled me flush against him.

"Nina..." he said softly.

If I didn't know the truth, I really would have believed this man was madly in love with me.

But if he loved me... why did he rush to Serena's side the second she called?

I was on the hundredth entry in my diary.

Today was August 25th, our fourth wedding anniversary.

A few weeks ago, I casually mentioned a recipe from an Italian restaurant in Florence, saying I missed it. Silas had actually remembered. He came home at 3 PM, took off his suit jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and spent hours in our kitchen.

When I came back from taking Nova to the park, the penthouse had been transformed. The lights were dimmed, soft jazz floated from the speakers, and the dining table was covered in red roses and flickering candles. The air smelled of perfectly seared steak and truffles.

Silas stood by the bar, pouring two glasses of expensive vintage champagne. When I walked in, he looked up, his eyes incredibly tender.

"Welcome home, Nina."

It was a cliché romantic setup, but it was flawless.

Underneath my champagne flute were two first-class plane tickets.

Departure date: the day after tomorrow. Destination: Maui, Hawaii.

I looked at Silas, then down at the tickets, and offered a soft smile.

The antique clock on the wall chimed 8 PM. The atmosphere was perfect.

And then, his phone, resting on the marble counter, buzzed.

The caller ID was Serena.

Silas hesitated, but he picked it up anyway. In the quiet room, I could hear her frantic, choked voice.

"Si... I feel so sick," she sobbed, using the very nickname I had just given back to him. "I'm in so much pain, and I don't know anyone else in the city anymore. Please... can you come help me? Si, please."

The romantic music seemed to screech to a halt.

Silas looked up at me.

In that split second, I saw his decision. I knew exactly how tonight would end.

"Nina... I'm sorry," he said, his voice torn. "I'll take her to the ER and come right back. It'll be quick."

I stood perfectly still by the table. I looked at the roses, the champagne, the tickets.

"Could you... not go?" I asked softly.

Silas looked at me, his jaw tight. He didn't say a word.

The air in the room froze. His apologetic expression vanished, replaced by the cold, unapproachable CEO I had married four years ago.

He looked away. "I'll be right back. I promise I won't miss our anniversary dinner."

We were locked in a standoff. Eventually, I surrendered.

"Okay," I murmured.

He grabbed his coat and headed for the door. I stood in the middle of the living room, watching his retreating back.

Just as his hand touched the doorknob, he turned to look at me.

I offered a gentle, submissive smile. What a perfect, understanding wife.

"Drive safely," I said.

"I will," he replied, and walked out into the night.

The heavy door clicked shut. The jazz music continued to play, as if mocking my empty apartment.

I picked up the crystal champagne flute and hurled it against the wall. It shattered into a thousand glittering pieces, leaving a wet, jagged stain on the expensive wallpaper.

I turned and walked toward the bedroom. Silas wasn't coming back tonight. I knew that.

Serena had won the bet.

But I hadn't lost.