The crystal chandeliers of Le Ciel cast a golden glow over the private dining room as I smoothed down my midnight blue dress—the one Xavier had complimented this morning. "You'll outshine everyone tonight, Sophia," he'd said, his eyes lingering on the way the fabric caught the light. Now, as I took my seat beside him at the head of the table, I felt a flutter of pride. This dinner with Takahashi Industries could secure Xavier's company's expansion into Asia—a deal we'd been working toward for months.

"The Takahashi representatives are impressed with your presentation," Xavier whispered, his breath warm against my ear. "Just keep smiling and looking gorgeous."

I nodded, feeling the weight of responsibility settle on my shoulders. My contribution to tonight went beyond being arm candy. I'd spent weeks perfecting the market analysis that had convinced Takahashi to even consider this meeting.

Helena appeared at Xavier's other side, her black dress a stark contrast to my blue. She'd styled her hair exactly like mine last week—the same loose waves I'd worn to the charity gala. I pushed the thought away. Coincidence. It had to be.

"Mr. Takahashi," Xavier extended his hand across the table. "I'm honored you chose to meet with us."

The elderly Japanese businessman nodded solemnly. "Your proposal shows promise, Mr. Collins. But business partnerships require trust."

"And trust requires celebration," Mr. Takahashi's son added, signaling a waiter who appeared with a silver tray of champagne flutes. "We toast to potential partnerships."

Glasses clinked around the table. I felt Xavier tense beside me.

"Perhaps water for Ms. Reed?" Helena suggested loudly, her voice carrying across the table. "I almost forgot—she has that severe alcohol allergy."

The room fell silent. Mr. Takahashi's eyebrows rose as he looked at me.

"I—yes, I do," I admitted, feeling heat rise to my cheeks.

Helena's eyes widened with exaggerated concern. "Oh! I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned it."

Xavier's jaw tightened. I could see the calculation in his eyes—the deal slipping away because of my medical condition.

"Sophia," he leaned close, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "We need this deal. Take one sip. Just enough to show respect."

"But Xavier, you know what happens—"

"Take. One. For the team." His fingers dug into my wrist under the table. "We've worked too hard for this."

I looked into his eyes—the same eyes that had once looked at me with such devotion when he pursued me 101 times. Now they were cold, determined.

Slowly, I reached for the glass. The crystal felt heavy in my hand.

"To new partnerships," I said weakly.

The champagne burned going down. Within minutes, my throat began to tighten. I felt my lips tingling, then going numb. The room tilted slightly as I gripped the edge of the table.

"Xavier," I gasped quietly. "I need—my EpiPen—"

But Xavier wasn't looking at me. Helena had placed a hand on her forehead, fanning herself dramatically.

"Are you alright?" Xavier asked her, concern etching his features.

"Just a little overwhelmed," she whispered. "This is such an important night."

As my vision blurred, I saw Xavier patting Helena's hand, comforting her while my airway closed. Chance #99 burned in my mind as I fumbled for my purse.

"Sophia?" Mr. Takahashi's voice seemed distant. "Are you unwell?"

"She'll be fine," Xavier assured him, finally glancing my way. "Just a minor reaction."

I couldn't speak. My finger found the EpiPen, but my hands trembled too much to inject it properly.

"Perhaps she should see a doctor," Helena suggested, her eyes gleaming with something that looked disturbingly like satisfaction.

Hours later, I lay in a hospital bed, the epinephrine finally counteracting the allergic reaction. My phone buzzed with a text from Xavier: "On my way."

When he appeared in the doorway, his suit jacket was gone, his tie loosened. He held a bouquet of roses—wilted at the edges, petals browning.

"Here," he said, placing them on the bedside table. "Thought these might cheer you up."

I stared at the drooping flowers. "Thank you," I said automatically, then paused. "They're... beautiful."

"They were supposed to be," he muttered, checking his watch.

"Xavier, are these—" I began, noticing a small card tucked into the plastic wrapper. The handwriting wasn't his.

"For Helena," he admitted, noticing my gaze. "I meant to give them to her yesterday. Forgot."

The wilting roses sat there, a perfect metaphor for us—something once vibrant now dying from neglect.

"You should be grateful I remembered to bring them at all," Xavier snapped when he saw my expression. "After everything I do for you."

I said nothing as he paced the small hospital room, already on his phone.

"I need to take Helena home," he announced. "She's really shaken up by what happened tonight."

"What about me?" I whispered.

"You're fine now." He waved dismissively. "The doctors said you can go home tomorrow."

As he turned to leave, the wilted roses watched me with their browning petals—flowers meant for another woman, just like his attention, his care, his love. Chance #99 had been used tonight, and as the door closed behind him, I wondered what would happen when we reached #101.

The maître d' at Lumière led me to our usual table—the corner spot with the view of the city lights that Xavier had reserved for our anniversary every year. Three years. Three years of love, of giving him chances, of watching him slip away piece by piece.

"Ms. Reed," he said with a warm smile, pulling out my chair. "Mr. Collins has ensured everything is perfect for your celebration tonight."

I thanked him, smoothing down my crimson dress—the one I'd bought specifically for tonight. The fabric caught the light as I sat, creating a subtle glow around me. I'd spent hours getting ready, wanting everything to be perfect.

"He should be here any minute," I assured the maître d', though I'd barely spoken to Xavier all day.

My phone buzzed with a text from Xavier: "Running late. Business emergency."

I set my phone down and ordered a glass of water, watching other couples arrive. A young woman at the next table giggled as her boyfriend presented her with a small velvet box. The diamond inside caught the light, sending prisms dancing across their table.

"To three wonderful years," the man said, raising his glass.

Three years. Like ours.

I checked my watch. 7:15 PM. We'd reserved for 6:00.

My phone remained silent as I watched the waiter bring their champagne. The woman's face lit up with joy as she kissed her boyfriend. I remembered when Xavier looked at me that way—before Helena, before the chances started mounting.

At 8:30, I ordered a salad I didn't want, just to keep the table. The waiter gave me sympathetic glances as he cleared untouched appetizers from neighboring tables where happy couples had come and gone.

"Perhaps Mr. Collins has been delayed?" he suggested gently.

"He texted he'd be late," I lied, not wanting pity.

By 9:45, the restaurant had emptied considerably. The couple that had been seated across from me—celebrating their tenth anniversary—had already finished their dessert and left. The woman had worn a dress similar to mine, though hers was blue. Her husband hadn't taken his eyes off her all night.

My phone finally buzzed at 10:15.

"Handling a crisis. Be there soon."

No apology. No acknowledgment of what today was.

I ordered coffee I didn't drink and watched the city lights blur through unshed tears.

At 11:23, the restaurant nearly empty now, Xavier finally strode in, straightening his tie. His hair was slightly disheveled, his collar uncharacteristically wrinkled.

"Sophia," he said, sliding into the seat across from me. "God, I'm sorry. The night just got away from me."

I looked at him—really looked at him. His eyes were bright, his cheeks flushed. Not the demeanor of someone who'd been handling a business crisis.

"Where were you?" I asked quietly.

"There was a mandatory work event," he said, signaling the waiter. "Helena was having a panic attack during the fireworks display on the rooftop. I had to make sure she was okay."

"Fireworks," I repeated, the word hollow in my mouth.

"Yeah, the ones for the Takahashi deal celebration." He shrugged, as if this explained everything. "Helena's never seen professional fireworks before. She got overwhelmed."

The waiter approached, and Xavier ordered a steak without asking me if I wanted anything.

"Her first time seeing fireworks," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "And you thought that was more important than our anniversary."

"It was work, Sophia." He checked his phone, frowning at the screen. "Besides, we can celebrate tomorrow. It's no big deal."

No big deal. Three years together—no big deal.

I watched him text someone—Helena, undoubtedly—his thumbs flying across the screen.

"Is she okay?" I asked.

"Hmm? Oh, yeah. Just making sure she got home safe." He set his phone down, finally looking at me. "What were we talking about?"

"Nothing important," I said, reaching for my purse. "I think I'm done here."

"Sophia, come on." He sighed dramatically. "Don't make a scene. I said I'm sorry."

I looked at him—this man who had pursued me 101 times, who had once made me feel like the center of his universe. Now he couldn't even remember what we were celebrating.

"This is chance number one hundred," I said quietly, my voice steady despite the storm inside me.

He blinked, momentarily confused. "What?"

"One hundred chances, Xavier." I stood, gathering my things. "You have one left."

He frowned, still not comprehending. "Wait, what are you talking about? Sophia, don't be dramatic."

But I was already walking away, my heels clicking on the marble floor as the maître d' rushed to open the door for me.

Behind me, I heard Xavier calling my name, but his voice was drowned out by the sound of my phone buzzing with another text.

I didn't need to look to know it was from him, already texting Helena to make sure she was really okay.

One chance left. And somehow, I knew exactly how he would use it.

Morning light filtered through the blinds as I stepped into Xavier's office building earlier than usual. I needed to prepare for today's board meeting—a presentation I'd spent weeks perfecting. The security guard nodded as I passed, used to my early arrivals.

"Good morning, Ms. Reed," he said. "Mr. Collins is already upstairs."

I smiled, appreciating his consistency. Unlike some people who couldn't be bothered to remember important dates.

The elevator doors opened to the executive floor, and I froze. A familiar scent hit me first—Jardin de Minuit, my signature perfume. The one Xavier had once said reminded him of midnight gardens and secret promises.

Helena sat behind Xavier's desk, her fingers tracing the edge of my usual chair during partner meetings. She wore a cream blouse that looked suspiciously like one I'd left in Xavier's closet last week.

"Good morning, Sophia," she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "Xavier mentioned you might be stopping by."

I stood in the doorway, my briefcase suddenly heavy in my hand. "I didn't realize you came in so early."

"Oh, I always do." She smiled, reaching for Xavier's coffee mug—the one with the Harvard logo I'd given him on our first anniversary. "Xavier needs his coffee exactly at seven-thirty. Two sugars, no cream. He gets cranky if it's not ready."

The casual way she mentioned his morning habits made my stomach twist. Those were details only someone intimate with his daily routine would know.

"He mentioned you prefer tea," she added, gesturing to a teapot on the credenza. "I made some for you. Chamomile, right? For your... digestive issues."

I felt heat rise to my cheeks. That was something I'd told Xavier in confidence months ago.

"Thank you," I managed, setting down my briefcase. "But I can make my own tea."

"Don't be silly." She laughed, the sound like breaking glass. "That's what I'm here for—to make things easier for both of you."

---

Over the next three weeks, every dinner reservation, every movie night, every attempt at reconnecting with Xavier was systematically dismantled by "urgent client meetings" that required Helena's presence.

"We need to reschedule," Xavier would text, usually an hour before we were supposed to meet. "Takahashi needs reassurance about the Asian markets."

Or: "Can't make it tonight. Helena's arranged a conference call with the European investors."

Each time, Helena would appear at his side during the video calls I was excluded from, her expression a perfect blend of professional concern and personal triumph.

"You're being ridiculous," Xavier snapped when I finally confronted him about the pattern. "These are business emergencies."

"Every Friday night is a business emergency?" I asked, fighting to keep my voice steady. "Every time we plan something?"

"You're being controlling," he accused, his eyes narrowing. "Not every relationship needs constant togetherness. Some of us have important work to do."

I watched him pack his briefcase, his movements sharp with irritation.

"Is it work, Xavier? Or is it Helena?"

His head snapped up. "Now you're just being jealous."

---

The private investigator's photos arrived in a manila envelope. I spread them across my kitchen table, each image more damning than the last.

Helena collecting my flowers from the receptionist's desk. Helena redirecting my emails to her inbox. Helena deliberately spilling coffee on presentations I'd prepared.

But it was the final photo that made my blood run cold—Helena in her apartment, surrounded by bouquets. Our anniversary flowers sat in a vase on her coffee table, the card clearly visible: "To my love, always—X"

I stormed into Xavier's office without knocking. He looked up from his computer, annoyed at the interruption.

"What is this?" I demanded, slapping the photos onto his desk.

He flipped through them, his expression darkening. "What the hell is this, Sophia?"

"Evidence," I said, my voice shaking with rage. "Helena has been intercepting our communications, stealing my work, and deliberately sabotaging us."

Xavier's face contorted with fury. He stood so abruptly his chair slammed against the wall.

"You hired someone to spy on me?" he shouted, gathering the photos and tearing them in half. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

I stared at him, stunned by his reaction. "Xavier, look at what she's doing!"

"I don't care!" he roared. "You don't spy on people you claim to love!"

As the torn pieces fluttered to the floor between us, I realized with perfect clarity that Xavier had already chosen whose side he was on.

And it wasn't mine.