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.