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."

"This tie is something he's always wanted, just a little reward for him," Lyra said.

She stood outside our apartment, adjusting the bag on her shoulder. Her eyes bright with anticipation as she inserted the key into the lock, imagining the surprise on my face.

But the door wouldn't budge. Frowning, she jiggled the key, twisting it again. Nothing.

Her smile faded. "Finley?" she called, her voice uncertain as she knocked.

After a moment, the door creaked open and Lyra straightened, still holding the carefully wrapped gift box. Her lips curved in a smile, ready to surprise me, but the scene before her stopped her cold.

Inside, a burly man with a grizzled face and a rough appearance leaned casually against the door frame, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He looked her over with mild disinterest, taking a drag and blowing the smoke lazily.

"Who are you?" he asked, his tone rough.

Lyra's smile vanished, her face tightening as she looked around. "Who am I? Who are you? This is my home. Where's Finley?" Her heart pounded as she scanned the familiar walls, hoping to spot something, anything, that belonged to her.

The man raised an eyebrow, chuckling darkly. "Hey, young lady, what are you doing trying to break into a private residence? This is my new apartment. You must be looking for the previous owner." He shook his head, his tone mocking. "He sold this place. Didn't you know?"

The words hit her like a slap and she stumbled back. She looked at the man, her disbelief clear, then back at the apartment, at every familiar corner and shadow. Eight years she had lived here with me; they had painted these walls, picked out the furniture together. The very air felt like it should belong to her.

"No," she said, her voice barely a whisper, shaking her head in stunned disbelief. "That's impossible! Just two weeks ago, I was living here. This is my home with my husband. We've been here for eight years!"

She tried to step forward, desperate to prove this was still her home, but the man stepped in front of her, his body blocking her path. He gave her a hard shove, nearly knocking her off her feet.

"Listen," he said with a scoff, "Look at you, all dressed up—don't you look like you could afford a place? The previous owner decided to leave and sold it. Since you say you're his wife, shouldn't you have known? Or are you here trying to scam us? Better leave quickly!"

With a final sneer, he shut the door in her face, the sound echoing down the empty hallway.

Lyra was left standing there, staring blankly at the closed door, her mind spinning. She clutched the gift box with the tie, her fingers shaking.

"Finley," she whispered, her voice cracking. "What is going on?"

Desperation clawed at her and she fumbled with her phone, trying to call me. The call went straight to voicemail. Her hands trembled as she opened her messaging app, typing out a quick message only for a red exclamation mark to flash on her screen, signaling that her message had been blocked.

Her face drained of color, her voice rising in panic as she whispered to herself, "He blocked me? Finley, you promised we'd do one more round of IVF. What do you mean by blocking me out of nowhere?"

She stood in the hallway, her breaths coming fast and shallow as she realized something was terribly wrong. She dialed my workplace, hoping for answers, pressing her phone to her ear as her heart thudded in her chest.

"Hello?" she said, her voice tight. "This is Finley's wife. He's blocked me and I urgently need to reach him. Let me talk to him!"

There was a pause before the voice on the other end responded, laced with a hint of sarcasm. "Finley quit last week. He took all his stuff with him. Didn't you know?"