My husband promised we would spend Thanksgiving with my parents this year.

Right before we left, he looked down at his phone and frowned. "Damn it. I forgot to change the delivery address again. Your parents' gift basket went to Cassia's place."

I stood in the entryway with my fingers frozen around my scarf.

For three years of marriage, Roman DeLuca had never removed Cassia Vail's address from his shopping apps.

Whenever I asked him why, he always said the same thing: "Cassia and I grew up together. She’s basically family."

The Italian espresso machine I wanted went to her apartment. He said her old machine had broken anyway.

The sapphire bracelet for our wedding anniversary was signed for by her. He said asking for it back after she opened it would look petty.

The sunflowers and baby's breath he promised me on Valentine's Day ended up in her hands. He said she had already put them in a vase, and he couldn't give me secondhand flowers.

This time, I had reminded him for two weeks. The Thanksgiving basket had a low-sugar pumpkin pie, nut-free cookies, and a custom low-sodium turkey roll for my father. I had chosen every item myself.

It still went to Cassia.

I kept my voice steady. "Drive over and get it back."

Roman's face darkened. "She already signed for it. What do you want me to do? We'll pick up wine and pastries on the way. Same thing."

"It isn't the same. Get it back."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Elena, can you stop turning every little thing into a family trial? No one makes things awkward like you do."

Every time something meant for me ended up with his childhood sweetheart, I asked him to get it back. Every time, I got some version of the same answer.

I stopped arguing and watched him slam the door behind him.

A few minutes later, I wiped my tears and texted my attorney.

[Happy Thanksgiving. Please draft a divorce agreement for me. Thank you.]

I bought replacement gifts from a boutique grocery store and went to my parents' house in Evanston alone.

My mother opened the door and looked behind me. "Where is Roman? I thought you two were coming together."

My father frowned. "Did something happen on the DeLuca side again?"

I set the last-minute wine and cake on the dining table and smiled. "He got pulled into a group call. He might come by later."

My parents didn’t press. They knew Roman was the heir of the DeLuca family and the future Don of Chicago. Casinos, docks, private clubs, and off-the-record deals could call him away at any hour, so a sudden emergency sounded reasonable enough.

My mother only squeezed my hand and said that as the future Donna, I would have to get used to the weight of his position.

I had barely sat down when my phone lit up.

Cassia had updated her story. Nine photos. One caption.

[Someone remembered I hate spending Thanksgiving alone. Thank you for the surprise.]

In the photos, the custom basket I had picked was already open. The pumpkin pie sat in neat slices. The turkey roll lay on a silver platter. The nut-free cookies sat beside a glass of red wine.

In the last photo, a man's hand was cutting meat for her. The hand was long and clean, with a pale scar across the web between the thumb and index finger.

I knew that hand. It was Roman's.

I also saw his left ring finger. His wedding band was gone.

Our mutual friends were laughing in the comments.

[You two look like the real couple.]

[The title of Mrs. DeLuca was always meant to come back to Cassia.]

I liked the post.

Roman's messages came in a few minutes later.

[Elena, you kicked me out on a holiday. What was I supposed to do, eat a cold sandwich in the car?]

[If you want to make a scene at home, fine. Don't drag Cassia into it. She's already having a hard day.]

I scrolled through our old messages.

[Did the hot chocolate you ordered for me get here yet? It's been two hours.]

[Forgot to change the address. It went to Cassia.]

[Can you delete her address? Can you set our home as the default?]

[It's one hot chocolate, Elena. Do you have to make yourself look this cheap? Order another one if you want it so badly.]

I had waited two hours and got called cheap for caring.

Farther up was our second wedding anniversary.

[Did the gift you ordered for me arrive?]

[It went to Cassia. She already opened it. I'll make it up to you next time.]

Before that, there was the perfume he promised to bring home from a business trip, the old art book I had wanted for months, and the cashmere wrap my mother wanted for her birthday.

Every time, he said he forgot to change the address.

How many times could one man forget the same thing in three years?

Maybe he never forgot. Maybe the person he meant to send things to had always been Cassia.

That evening, I finished dinner with my parents and left early with an excuse.

When I got back to the lake-view apartment Roman and I had shared for three years, my attorney had already emailed the divorce agreement.

I printed it and reached for a pen.

The door unlocked before I signed.

Roman walked in with two black shopping bags. For once, he looked tired and almost sorry.

"The basket is gone," he said, setting the bags in front of me. "I got the two cashmere coats for your parents back. That's on me. I booked Velluto for tonight. Let me take you out and make it up to you."

I didn’t tell him the basket had not been replaceable.

My father had just had a cardiac exam and could not eat high-sodium food. My mother had a serious nut allergy. I had spent days checking that bakery's nut-free production line.

I also didn’t tell him I hated Velluto.

The old Italian restaurant was known for hazelnut sauce, rare meat, and heavy cream. I had told him more than once.

When a man didn’t care, repetition only taught him to call you difficult.

I opened the shopping bags.

Both cashmere coats had been unwrapped. The tags were cut off. A dark red smear of dried cranberry sauce stained the sleeve of the pale gray coat.

I stared at the stain and suddenly thought it looked like my marriage.

Respectable from a distance. Marked by someone else as soon as you looked closer.

"Who opened them?" I asked.

Roman paused and lowered his voice. "Cassia thought they were for her parents. She didn't mean anything by it."

"She opened them, stained them, and you brought them back for me to give my parents?"

The little guilt in his eyes disappeared under irritation.

"What else should I do? The tags are gone. They can't be returned. They're your parents' sizes, so no one else can wear them."

No one else. If Cassia's parents could have worn the coats, I would never have seen them again.

I shoved the coats back into the bag. "You deal with them."

I turned toward the study, but Roman caught my wrist. "Enough. I booked dinner. It's Thanksgiving. Can we not spend the entire holiday fighting over this?"

He pulled me out before I even changed.

When we reached Velluto, I learned his apology dinner wasn’t for me alone. Cassia was already sitting by the window.

The host led Roman straight to the rear booth without checking a reservation. In that restaurant, the DeLuca name worked better than a key.

She wore a black satin slip dress, small pearl earrings, and soft curls that looked planned down to the last strand. Even her lipstick matched the warm gold light of the restaurant.

I wore an oversized knit sweater and jeans. I had clipped my hair up with an old barrette.

Roman stood beside me in a flawless suit. He and Cassia looked like lovers who had made a reservation weeks in advance.

I looked like the extra guest someone had dragged along.

Roman pulled out my chair and explained as if it made perfect sense. "Cassia couldn't go home this year. She always spent Thanksgiving with us when we were kids, and today hit her hard. I asked her to join us."

He leaned closer and dropped his voice. "She's more fragile than you. Be the mature one and let it go."

I looked at him. Cassia and I were the same age. I was even three months younger. In his mouth, she was always Cassia, the fragile girl everyone had to protect.

I was always Elena, the woman who had to be mature, reasonable, and quiet while she swallowed every insult.

After the waiter brought the menus, Roman and Cassia sat on the same side. Their shoulders nearly touched.

"You like pistachio gelato," Roman said. "Let's order one."

Cassia smiled. "You like it too. Let's get two."

"What about the hazelnut ravioli? They do it well here."

"Ro, you still remember hazelnut is my favorite?"

"You stole an entire jar of hazelnut spread when you were nine and got a stomachache all night. How could I forget?"

They moved through the menu with the ease of old habits. Only when they were finished did they seem to remember a third person sat at the table.

Roman cleared his throat. "We ordered enough for three."

Cassia tilted her head and smiled at me with sugar over a blade. "Mrs. DeLuca, I'm sorry. Ro and I lose track when we talk about the old days."

Ro.

I repeated the name in my head.

During two years of dating and three years of marriage, I had once jokingly called him Rome. He frowned and told me not to be corny.

Cassia called him Ro, and his eyes went soft.

The dishes arrived one after another. Hazelnut ravioli. Beef tartare. Rare lamb chops. Pistachio gelato. Almond cake.

Roman cut the lamb for Cassia with practiced care and slid the plate toward her.

She thanked him in a small voice. Her eyes carried the smug glow of a woman who knew she was favored.

Only then did Roman look at me. "Why aren't you eating? The hazelnut ravioli is here."

"I'm allergic to tree nuts," I said evenly. "I never eat hazelnut or pistachio."

His hand froze for a second.

Then he blamed me with his eyes. "I didn't remember. Why didn't you say something earlier? And if you can't eat nuts, there is beef tartare on the table."

I looked at the plate of raw beef.

He used to know I didn’t eat raw food. At some point, he had forgotten all of it.

I no longer understood why I was still sitting there. I picked up my bag and stood.

Cassia immediately looked worried. "Is Mrs. DeLuca upset? Did I make you two fight again?"

Roman lowered his voice, but the anger still cut through. "Elena, do you have to ruin every room you walk into?"

I didn’t turn around. When I reached the front of the restaurant, Roman followed me with my coat in his hand. For one breath, I almost believed he had finally chosen to leave with me.

Then Cassia called from inside. "Ro, I think I can't breathe."

Roman stopped. He looked at me. He looked back at Cassia, whose face had turned pale. Then he shoved the coat into my arms. "I'll have the driver take you home. Cassia gets panic attacks. She needs me more right now."

I looked down at the coat and laughed once under my breath. When danger reached for me, he would come after me by instinct. When Cassia asked for him, he would turn away.

He didn’t feel nothing for me. I just came after her every single time.

Back at the apartment, I sent my resignation to the museum first.

I worked as a restoration consultant at the Art Institute of Chicago. The job was stable, respectable, and comfortable. Three years ago, when we married, Roman told me the DeLuca family didn’t need my paycheck. He said I should stop exhausting myself. He said when we had children, I could have an easier schedule.

I believed him. Now I no longer wanted to keep myself small for a man who never put me first.

After I sent the resignation, I opened another email that had been waiting in my inbox.

The Marlowe Institute in Geneva was one of the most discreet private art provenance agencies in Europe. It traced paintings and artifacts lost through wars, smuggling routes, and organized crime deals.

They had contacted me six months ago and invited me to join a long-term project.

At the time, I hesitated because I still believed Roman and I might have a child. I still believed we had a home.

Now there wasn’thing to hesitate over. I replied.

[I accept the offer. I can start according to the original schedule.]

The email asked me to confirm that I understood the risks. The projects crossed private collectors, old money, and people who preferred history to stay buried. The institute could protect its researchers, but it could not promise comfort.

I read that clause twice.

For three years, I had lived inside Roman's protection and still felt unsafe in the rooms he owned. The word risk no longer scared me as much as the word comfort. Comfort had made me wait. Comfort had made me explain away every slight until I could barely recognize my own voice.

I clicked send before fear could dress itself up as common sense.

Then I began packing the study. Roman did most of his work from DeLuca Group's offices, so the study had always been mine. My restoration notes, old exhibition catalogs, pigment samples, and reference books filled every shelf.

I was halfway through the room when Roman came home.

He saw the boxes, and the softness on his face vanished.

"When did you become like this?" He stood in the doorway with disappointment in his voice. "One Thanksgiving, Elena. You fought from morning to night. Will you only be happy when everyone else is miserable?"

It was almost funny. Even then, he thought the problem was my temper.

I didn’t want to explain anymore. "Roman, I want a divorce."

His phone rang before the last word had settled.

It wasn’t his default ringtone. It was an old jazz recording of "Fly Me to the Moon."

Roman had changed phones three times. Each time, he set that song as one ringtone before he did anything else.

He used to say it was a habit from college. Later, I learned it belonged only to Cassia.

Roman looked at the screen and answered without hesitation. Whatever Cassia said on the other end made him turn toward the door. "Don't be scared. I'm on my way."

The door slammed behind him.

Maybe he hadn’t heard me ask for a divorce. Maybe he had heard and decided Cassia's tears mattered more.

I stood in the empty living room, and the last fog inside me cleared.

The ringtone that belonged to Cassia. The default address he refused to delete. The gifts that were supposed to be mine and kept landing in her hands.

Roman had never hidden the truth well. I had only refused to read it.

I finished packing the study and moved into the bedroom.

My clothes didn’t fill much space. For three years, many small things I wanted had ended up at Cassia's apartment because Roman always said, "I'll order it."

I looked at the two cheap metal lamps on our nightstands.

After our wedding, I had spent weeks choosing a pair of handmade ceramic lamps for the bedroom. Roman offered to buy them. They went to Cassia.

When I asked him to get them back, he refused.

I bought the cheapest pair I could find at a supermarket because I was angry. I thought he would see them every night, feel guilty, and order the lamps I actually liked.

Three years passed. That ceramic studio released several new collections. Roman never noticed.

I unplugged both metal lamps and threw them into a trash bag.

The next afternoon, Roman called. "The DeLuca Group has a celebration dinner at the Bellwether tonight. The docks contract finally closed, and everyone is pushing me to host."

I was ready to refuse.

Then he said, "My parents will be there. Don't be late."

I fell silent for a moment and swallowed the refusal. Since I had decided to divorce him, I should tell the elder DeLucas in person.

I called movers and sent all my boxes to my parents' house.

Before I left the apartment, I looked back at the home I had lived in for three years.

It had a gorgeous lake view, expensive furniture, and DeLuca men posted downstairs.

It had never been mine.