Sitting alone at the table, surrounded by the gentle hum of conversation and the rich aroma of simmering broth, I scrolled through the photos from my Colosseum trip. Each one was a memory preserved in soft hues of ancient stone and sunlight. Carefully, I arranged the shots into a nine-photo collage, each image a piece of a journey I'd taken without her—this time on my own terms. I added a simple caption beneath the post: [As hoped.]

Within minutes, the notifications began. Friends and acquaintances liked and commented, but one name stood out—Jonah. I almost laughed as a fresh notification popped up: Jonah had posted something of his own.

Curiosity got the better of me and I clicked on it. The photo showed Lyra, gazing intently at something out of frame, a serene smile on her lips. His caption read: [My little princess is such a foodie; she just loves the cake at my place. But as long as she's happy, I'll keep buying it for her until she's had enough!]

The comments streamed in, fawning and flirtatious replies piling up. I pressed "like" without hesitation, feeling a strange satisfaction as I set my phone aside and refocused on my meal. Each bite of hot pot seemed to ground me, the spice and warmth filling a quiet void.

Moments later, my phone buzzed violently. I glanced down, frowning when I saw Lyra's name flash on the screen. I ignored it, then a second call and a third. Finally, on the fourth ring, I sighed and answered, keeping my voice carefully neutral.

"Hello, Lyra."

Her voice came through, sharp and indignant. "Finley, did you go to Rome alone?" In the background, I could hear the sound of running water, as though she were in the middle of something—or with someone. "Didn't we agree that we'd go together when I had time? What's the point of going by yourself?"

I could almost see her pout through the phone, the familiar look of exasperation she wore whenever things didn't go her way. She continued, her tone shifting to a forced sweetness, "And don't forget, we agreed that when the baby arrives, we'd go there as a family to take a family portrait..."

Her words hit a nerve and I felt a slow, simmering anger rise. For years, I'd suggested going to Rome, to fulfill my mother's dying wish. But each time, Lyra had pushed it aside with flimsy excuses, empty promises, until finally, she'd stopped pretending altogether. I took a deep breath, choosing my words carefully.

"Nothing special," I said flatly. "I just wanted to go, so I went."

Silence hung between us, thick with her unspoken irritation and my quiet resentment. I could tell she wasn't used to hearing such indifference from me.

"If there's nothing else, I'll hang up now," I finally said, my tone devoid of warmth. Before she could respond, I pressed the red button and ended the call. It was like releasing a weight I hadn't known I was carrying.

Later that night, when I finally made it back to our apartment, I could hear voices before I even opened the door—a familiar, careless laugh mingling with Lyra's softer, teasing tone. When I stepped inside, the two figures on the couch froze, turning toward me. The room was filled with the smell of expensive cologne, the cushions indented where they had been leaning close.

"Finley, you're home late," Lyra said, standing up quickly and crossing over to me, a faint edge of impatience under her smile as she took my coat.

My eyes drifted to Jonah, who looked momentarily startled before his usual smug grin returned. He was relaxed, sprawled across the couch as though he owned the place, eyes darting between us with a mild curiosity.

"Why did you bring him back here?" I asked quietly, keeping my voice even.

Jonah looked down, his expression shifting to feigned guilt. "Sorry, Finley. I was in town for work and Lyra mentioned it'd be fine if I stayed over. You don't mind, do you?"

I could feel Lyra's gaze on me, watching closely, gauging my reaction. "If you do mind, Finley, I'll have Jonah stay at a hotel," she added, crossing her arms, the challenge clear in her eyes.

I looked between them, a calm, detached smile forming on my lips. "I don't mind," I said, feeling a strange satisfaction at the shock that flickered across their faces. I turned my gaze back to Jonah, keeping my voice steady. "You two have been childhood friends, inseparable since you were kids. Why would I mind?"

Without a word, I turned and retreated to the study, closing the door firmly behind me. I sank into the leather chair, the faint scent of old books and cedar offering a small comfort. Turning on my laptop, I immersed myself in work.

But the solitude was short-lived. A soft knock broke through my concentration and Lyra's voice filtered through the door, tentative and sweet. "Finley? Are you really not mad?" She hesitated, then knocked again. "Finley?"

Every time before, when she tried to have Jonah stay at our place, we would end up in a huge fight.

I'd accuse her of lacking boundaries and she'd snap back, calling me insecure and petty. We'd argue until we were both worn out, parting in silence that clung like smoke after a fire.

But tonight, as she glanced at me, expecting a familiar spark of resentment, I stayed calm. Her face fell, uncertain. "Are you angry?" she asked again, her voice holding a wary edge.

I couldn't hold back a bitter laugh. "Lyra, I really don't mind. What's making you so anxious? Even if you both shared a bed, I wouldn't blink an eye."

She squinted, searching my face for a trace of my old anger. When she found none, she exhaled, visibly relaxing. "Good, as long as you're not upset. He's only staying one night; he'll be gone by tomorrow."

The sound of running water came from the bathroom and then Jonah's voice called out, "Lyra, can you grab me a towel?"

"Coming," she replied, picking up a fresh towel and heading to the bathroom without hesitation.

I watched as she went, her tone absurdly gentle as she reminded him, "Be careful, the floor is slippery."

A memory of similar moments flashed in my mind, times when I'd needed a towel or a small favor. She'd always huff, barely masking her irritation, her words clipped: "Can't you handle that yourself? What would you do without me?"

I thought bitterly, it wasn't the task that bothered her—it was me.

At ten o'clock, Lyra knocked softly on the study door, her voice tentative. "When are you going to bed?"

Without looking up from my laptop, I replied evenly, "You go ahead. I'll sleep in here tonight."

Her footsteps receded and soon the apartment settled into an uneasy quiet. I wasn't sure when I fell asleep, but when I awoke, the digital clock on my desk read 3 a.m. I was parched, so I started to get up for a glass of water when I heard muted voices seeping through the wall from the bedroom.

Jonah's low voice, slightly smug, cut through the silence. "Lyra, don't you think this is exciting?"

I could hear Lyra's whisper, her tone full of a breathy, teasing scold. "Stop it. My husband is in the study. If he hears us, there'll be trouble."

Jonah's voice turned sullen. I imagined Lyra coaxing him with that familiar softness. "Be patient. Tomorrow night, I'll say I have to work late and then I'll spend the whole night with you."

The corner of my mouth curled into a smirk as I quietly closed my laptop.

***

The next morning, I left for work early, slipping out while the apartment was still in shadows. By the time Lyra's calls began, I'd already submitted my resignation letter.

My boss, looking bewildered, called me into his office. "Finley, you're at a crucial point here. Your career's just gaining traction. Are you sure about this? Is something going on that I can help with?"

I shook my head, managing a polite smile. "Thank you, but I'm ready for a change. I want to start fresh, somewhere new."

He sighed, eyeing me with concern before reluctantly approving my resignation.

Lyra, still drowsy, finally got through to me as I was walking out of the building. "Honey, do you want breakfast? I'll make something when I get home," she offered, her voice smooth with an affectionate tone that felt oddly out of place.

I kept my voice neutral. "I've already eaten."

In the early years of our marriage, breakfast had been one of her small ways of showing care. She'd pack neat little sandwiches for me, cut fruit into shapes. But that had stopped after one morning when I'd absently reached for a sandwich she'd made and her face had turned cold as steel.

"That's not for you," she'd snapped. "Are you that greedy? That's for a client!"

Later, I'd learned the truth. The breakfast hadn't been for a client—it was for Jonah. I'd found out he'd once mentioned craving a sandwich on social media and Lyra had gone out of her way to make it happen.

On the other end of the call, Lyra paused, then spoke, her voice softer. "Tonight… why don't you wait for me at home? I'll come back early and cook dinner for us."

It didn't matter anymore. I knew what I needed to do. The decision was already made—our marriage was coming to an end.

"Alright," I agreed casually to Lyra's offer to cook dinner. She had no idea I'd printed the divorce papers that morning, neatly stacked in a folder on my desk, waiting for the right moment.

When I returned home that evening, the kitchen was filled with warmth and the comforting aroma of her cooking—a rare scene in recent years. Lyra had prepared an impressive spread, plating each dish with care as if this was an apology, though she never said it out loud.

At the table, she filled my bowl with rice, her tone almost sweet. "Honey, Jonah has been helping my company a lot recently. He doesn't ask for much—just a small 5% stake in my company. Do you think you could transfer a bit of your shares to him?"

As she spoke, she served the last dish onto the table, a perfectly arranged meal that looked, smelled and even tasted perfect. Yet, the moment I heard her request, my appetite withered.

I set my spoon down, studying her face with an odd calm. "Sure."

Lyra blinked, visibly taken aback. The last time she'd tried to involve Jonah in anything related to my finances, I'd balked and we'd argued for hours. But now, I felt strangely numb.

I left the dining room, heading to the study to draft the agreement. The share transfer was straightforward—my lawyer had already sent me a template in anticipation. I signed it quickly and brought it back to the table, placing it in front of her.

She stared, looking incredulous. "Honey, you... agreed?" Her voice was hesitant, almost wary.

"Yes," I said smoothly, "I signed it. You just need to add your signature here, here and here."

She scanned the document, her expression a mix of disbelief and surprise. Without a second thought, she picked up the pen and signed her name, the ink still drying as she handed the contract back to me. Her face softened and she offered me a warm smile as she ladled some soup into my bowl.

"Honey, you've been so… gentle lately." Her voice was coaxing, trying to gauge my mood. "When we have a child in the future, I'm sure we'll be so happy together. Don't you think?"

I said nothing, stirring my soup absently, knowing there was no "future" for us. She seemed content with my silence, interpreting it as agreement and continued eating with a newfound ease.

***

The next morning, I left early, watching as Lyra hurried to pack her things for her "business trip." I'd seen her schedule on her phone last night, noting the plans she'd made with Jonah to tour a few "prospective properties" for her company. She wouldn't be back for several days.

Once she was gone, I wasted no time. I called a real estate agent and put our apartment on the market. It was my premarital asset, a place I'd bought after five years of saving and hard work. When Lyra had been struggling to afford rent, I'd let her move in. But as her business grew, she never mentioned moving or even contributing to the household costs, always brushing off the suggestion with a smile and a casual "We're too attached to this place to leave it."

While she'd once given me her earnings to manage, that habit faded over time, until all that remained were her company dividends. When I discovered she'd bought Jonah a duplex in a high-end neighborhood—one that cost nearly ten times the value of our modest home—I'd felt the last strands of loyalty slipping away.

Within three days, the apartment was sold, thanks to its prime location and excellent condition. I finalized the sale, sold off my remaining shares in Lyra's company and split half of our shared assets. By the time I stepped out of the bank, my bags were packed, my lease signed for a new apartment and my flight ticket purchased. I'd left the city without looking back.

***

A week later, Lyra and Jonah strolled through a bustling mall, the vibrant hum of shoppers filling the air. They stopped at a high-end boutique, where Lyra's gaze lingered on an elegant silk tie in the display. Without a second thought, she pointed it out to the salesperson, who carefully wrapped it in a box.

As she handed the box to Jonah, a playful smile spread across his face. "How did you know I've been wanting this one?" he asked, assuming the gift was meant for him.

Lyra held the tie close to her chest, her expression softening as she met his eyes. "It's not for you," she said, her voice carrying a gentle, almost wistful tone. Jonah's smile faltered, confusion flashing across his face as he watched her.

Lyra's gaze drifted off, her eyes softening as if she were speaking to someone else entirely. "It's for my husband," she murmured, almost to herself. "These days, he's been so... gentle, so accommodating. He never complains, always listens and agrees to everything I ask."