Twenty days left.

Charles started leaving earlier and coming home later.

The promised anniversary trip was all but forgotten.

Sometimes, I would see his friends' Instagram Stories. In the background of their parties, he was always there, standing beside a woman.

That face. I had already committed it to memory from the encrypted folder on his computer.

That day, my business partner, Maya Vega, stopped me.

"Cherry, grab the design proposal. We're heading out to sign with the new client. I hear it's a hot startup Mr. Corbett has invested in."

I nodded, my mind a million miles away.

Though we were partners, no one at our firm knew I even knew Charles, let alone that we were secretly married.

The client’s office was just downstairs from Charles's company.

I knew what it was: the new tech company Olivia had founded since returning, with funding from Blackwood Capital.

Recent financial news was full of puff pieces, hyping up their old romance to generate buzz for the project.

When we walked into the CEO's office, I saw Charles, just as I had expected.

He was standing at a whiteboard, guiding Olivia's team through the details of their project proposal.

Olivia sat in the head chair, poised and elegant as a swan.

The moment Charles saw me, his hand froze mid-stroke, leaving a long, black streak from the marker across the whiteboard.

The atmosphere in the room grew frigid.

Olivia glanced at me, a hint of amusement in her eyes. "Charles, who is this?"

Charles fell silent, clearly calculating how to answer without giving Olivia the wrong impression.

I smiled and introduced myself. "Hello, everyone. My name is Cherry Sinclair. I'm the designer for this project. Mr. Corbett and I are—"

Charles and I spoke in unison.

"We were college classmates."

As the words hung in the air, my fingers tightened on the folder in my hands until my knuckles went white.

It was not the first time I had covered for him, and it was not the first time he had erased my identity in public.

A secret marriage did not just hide our present; it sealed off any possible future.

The business meeting that followed was a disaster.

Charles reverted to his Wall Street elite persona, representing Olivia and driving a hard bargain.

"On top of this design fee, we need another ten percent reduction," he said, his voice cold.

He was pushing us to our absolute limit, shredding our profit margin.

Maya kicked me under the table, hesitated, then bit her lip and conceded. "Fine. Mr. Corbett certainly lives up to his reputation, cutting straight to our bottom line."

The man lowered his gaze, staring at the pen in his hand, unable to meet my eyes.

He was every bit as ruthless as they said. Only this time, his ruthlessness was directed at me, his legal wife.

Olivia remained silent through it all. She just smiled, a gentle curve of her lips that held no warmth.

In that smile was a hint of provocation, and beneath it, a sense of effortless superiority.

She had won. Utterly. And she had every right to be proud.

Olivia's assistant walked in holding a bouquet of lilies, their heavy fragrance instantly filling the conference room.

"Flowers for Miss Monroe, to celebrate the company's launch."

Unexpectedly, Charles, who had been so aggressive just moments before, suddenly went pale and rushed to stop her.

"Don't bring those in! Take them away, now."

"But—" The assistant was startled.

"I said take them away! Someone in here is severely allergic to lilies!" Charles’s voice was a near shout.

In that instant, the irony of the moment was a blade, piercing me straight through.

In five years of marriage, this man had forgotten our anniversary and messed up my birthday. Every reminder I ever gave him was casually brushed aside.

And yet, he had always remembered my allergy to lilies.

I had once clung to that fact for comfort.

Maybe all the other details proved he did not love me, but I clung to this one thing as proof that he cared, even just a little.

But seeing that care on display now, in this space that belonged entirely to Olivia, felt so jarringly out of place, so deeply ironic.

The project moved forward quickly.

Charles, however, felt it was too slow. He began emailing me late at night, pushing for faster progress.

"This is Olivia's first project since her return. I will not allow it to fail."

That was what he wrote in the email.

I stared at the screen, feeling nothing.

That night, after the negotiation, when we got home, Charles sat on the sofa for a long time.

Finally, he offered an explanation. "We're still secretly married. I haven't found the right time to tell anyone. I'll make it public eventually. Right now, the most important thing is getting this project right."

I just nodded, noncommittal.

I did not remind him that the truly important thing should have been our upcoming fifth wedding anniversary.

A trip he had promised but never planned.

Nor did I remind him that on that day, the document he had signed would officially take effect.

After all, in his world, Olivia was all that mattered.

During the project, Charles went out of his way to avoid situations where Olivia and I were alone, but Maya still sensed something was off.

In the breakroom, she sized me up and asked, "Did you and Mr. Corbett… have a thing? No, wait. It's more than that, isn't it?"

I smiled, stirring my coffee. "What do you mean?"

Maya pursed her lips. "The way he looks at you sometimes… it’s with this incredibly guilty expression. It's the look a scumbag gives an ex he knows he screwed over. There's even a flicker of longing in there."

I paused, thinking back.

It was not that I had not noticed. It was just that our entire history made it impossible for me to trust what I saw.

Ten days left.

That day was supposed to be a regular project meeting.

Olivia kept me chatting for a long time about interior design choices for the office. I could not tell if she was doing it on purpose. I had a feeling she had probably already guessed my connection to Charles.

I remained polite.

After the meeting, Charles unexpectedly offered me a ride home.

"I have a driver," I said.

"I'll take you." He took my bag, leaving no room for argument.

This was a first.

"Your work ethic has exceeded my expectations," he said, breaking the silence in the car. "You have a real talent."

Married for five years, and this was his first compliment.

I gazed out the window at the receding Manhattan nightscape, then turned to look at him, confused.

Charles hesitated for a long time. Only when we stopped at a red light did he finally speak. "About the anniversary trip… do you think we can still go? Things at the company have been really busy."

I glanced down at the plain wedding band on my finger. He was trying to cancel. I knew it. It had to be because of Olivia.

"Let's just cancel it. We don't have time to arrange for visas or an itinerary anyway."

I looked up at him, not calling him out, not wanting to make things ugly.

Charles stared at me, shocked. The light turned green, and he did not notice until the car behind us honked. He looked stunned, as if he had gotten an answer he never expected.

He suddenly asked, "Are you okay with that? You used to care so much."

He was right. The old me would have lost it, right then and there, demanding to know why.

So many of the ugly moments in our marriage had come from me losing control, even when every single one was his fault.

I gave a small smile. "Of course. It's just a formality, and we're both busy."

For a long time, the air in the car was thick with unspoken words. Charles tried again, a new, almost pleading tone in his voice.

"How about this weekend, then? We could go to the Storm King Art Center to unwind. It's not too far."

I glanced at the countdown on my phone—ten days until the divorce was final.

"I have to work," I said, shutting him down.

His hands tightened on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white.

"Then what about dinner? That Jean-Georges place you've always wanted to try? I can pull some strings and get us a reservation."

Charles threw out several more ideas, and I shot down every one.

By the time we pulled up in front of the apartment building, his expression had morphed from guilt to a mix of confusion and barely concealed annoyance.

Seeing his frustration, I decided to take the lead. "How about this Friday night? We could go see the old house in Brooklyn."

The old house was where we had lived when we first got married, a small loft we rented because he did not want to touch his family's trust fund.

It held our first memories together, and it was my last real foothold in New York.

Charles was stunned for a long moment, clearly trying to read my intentions, or perhaps just trying to remember if Olivia had plans that day.

Finally, he nodded. "Okay. Friday night."

Even after I got out of the car, he just sat there, staring straight ahead for a long, long time.