I didn't eat dinner. I sat in the middle of the massive velvet sofa in our living room, staring at the pitch-black TV screen, waiting.

I waited in silence as the city lights flickered on outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the skyline into a sea of artificial stars. I waited until I was utterly exhausted and finally slipped into sleep.

The sound of the heavy wooden door opening jolted me awake. It was 1:15 AM.

Silas stepped inside, moving carefully to avoid making noise. When he flipped on the dim foyer light, he suddenly froze, our eyes meeting across the expansive room. He was impeccably dressed, though looking slightly weary, his tie loosened.

He frowned slightly. "Why are you still up?"

"I fell asleep on the couch," I said, forcing a soft, practiced smile onto my lips. "I woke up when I heard the door."

Silas gave a vague "Mm," his face returning to its usual calm, unreadable expression.

I stood up, my joints aching, and walked over to help him off with his coat.

As I took the heavy wool overcoat from his shoulders, a scent hit me. It was his cologne mixed with a sweet floral note. Gardenia.

The scent clawed its way into my nasal cavity, cloying and pungent. It was Serena's signature perfume.

My stomach churned violently, a wave of nausea washing over me, and I had to grip the coat tightly just to steady myself.

On the very night I was handed a death sentence, my husband had thrown himself entirely into rekindling a connection with his newly single ex-girlfriend.

I should have asked him.

A normal wife would have screamed, demanded answers, or at least asked about the perfume. But I just stood there, my mouth opening slightly and then snapping shut. I said nothing. As if everything about the night was perfectly ordinary.

The next morning, I woke up before dawn. There was a dull, persistent ache in my upper abdomen, but I ignored it and dragged myself out of bed to make breakfast.

Silas suffered from severe stress-induced gastritis.

Two years ago, he had a severe flare-up and was hospitalized at NYU Langone for half a month. I stayed by his bedside every single day, sleeping in an uncomfortable plastic chair and helping him manage his emails.

The nurses would often whisper about how lucky he was to have such a devoted, diligent wife.

I remember one afternoon during that hospital stay. Silas was sitting up against the stark white pillows, his face pale, looking exhausted. As I peeled an apple for him, his deep, unfathomable eyes tracked my movements with a blank expression.

"We could hire a private nurse, Nina," he said, his voice raspy.

My knife slipped, breaking the apple peel. He noticed and said, "You don't have to work this hard."

"It's not the same," I replied softly.

People always assume that doing things yourself is more valuable than paying a stranger to do it. When you love someone, you naturally care for them far more than anyone hired to do a job.

He asked, "What's the difference?"

I looked at him and gave a silly, genuine smile. "Because you're my husband."

Ever since he was discharged, curing his stomach issues had become my personal mission.

Silas was a workaholic who frequently forgot to eat when the markets were volatile. So, I started waking up early every day to prepare stomach-friendly meals for him. If I had the time, I'd order an Uber and deliver a hot lunch directly to the Financial District.

Over the years, these routines had become second nature.

Today, Silas woke up earlier than usual. Before I could even reach out to help adjust his tie, he grabbed the insulated bento box off the marble counter and hurried toward the elevator.

Right before the doors opened, he paused and looked back at me standing in the kitchen. In that fleeting second, the coldness in his eyes seemed to melt into a sliver of warmth, like the first ray of sunlight hitting pristine snow.

"I'm leaving, Nina," he said.

"Drive safely," I replied. Just like countless mornings before.

Going to his office to deliver lunch that afternoon was a complete whim. I hadn't texted him.

In the lobby, the receptionist recognized me instantly and waved me through to his private executive floor.

I had been to Vance Capital many times.

Silas never hid me; he would confidently introduce me to his board members and those cutthroat partners, saying, "This is my wife."

He always spoke with an old-money aristocratic gravity and formality that naively led me to believe our relationship was unbreakable, strong enough to weather any storm.

But life is a cruel, merciless writer. It gives you a beautiful dream to lower your defenses, only to shatter it and force you to confront the brutal reality underneath.

I stepped off the elevator and walked down the thick-carpeted corridor toward his corner office. Through the half-open glass door of the adjacent private lounge, I saw him.

My husband was engaged in a lively conversation with a woman.

In her hands, she held the delicate stainless-steel bento box I had packed for him that morning.

Serena Thorne hadn't changed a bit since our college days. Her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders in effortless waves, and when she smiled, her eyes curved into half-moons, making her look like a seemingly harmless cat.

"Thank you so much, Silas," Serena said softly. "The breakfast was absolutely delicious."

"It's nothing," Silas said evenly, taking the empty container from her hands.

Serena opened her mouth to say something else, but her gaze drifted over his shoulder and landed on me, frozen in the hallway. An exaggerated look of surprise instantly bloomed on her face.

"Nina?!" she gasped, practically skipping over to me. "Oh my god, it's been so long!"

She reached out to grab my hand but noticed the insulated lunch bag I was carrying. She feigned a frown. "Are you here to drop off Silas's lunch? Wait... did you make the breakfast from this morning too?"

She pressed a hand to her chest, her face a picture of innocent guilt. "Honey, I am so sorry. My blood sugar was so low this morning, and I was just dropping by, so Silas insisted I eat it. If I had known you made it specifically for him, I never would have touched it."

Serena flashed me a brilliant, blinding smile. "I have to say, though, Nina, your cooking is absolutely incredible."

Of course it was. Silas had an infamously sensitive stomach and an extremely picky palate.

I had spent four years, burned my fingers countless times, and stood over scorching stoves to perfect those recipes just for him.

He knew that.

I forced a smile, mirroring hers, and hid my free hand behind my back.

My manicured nails dug so deeply into my palms that the skin broke. Right then and there, under the crushing weight of betrayal and the phantom pain of my cancer, a new emotion quietly took root.

I found the reality of this entirely unacceptable.

It was then that the blurry outlines of a plan for revenge began to come into sharp focus.