I had built something.

I had a body that had survived stress, grief, sleepless nights, and twelve years of carrying more weight than anyone in this house had ever admitted.

Frumpy.

That was the word he had apparently chosen for me.

“Maybe she works,” I said.

Amber lifted one shoulder.

“Oh, please.

Stephen says she has some little job at some company.

Probably a receptionist or something.

Nothing important.”

A little job.

Eight years earlier, I founded Harlow Medical Logistics from a rented desk, one laptop, and a list of suppliers who took my calls only because I refused to stop making them.

Now we had nearly two hundred employees, contracts across four states, and revenue that paid for the marble floor beneath Amber’s heels.

It also paid for Stephen’s car.

And this house.

And the private loans quietly keeping his medical practice alive after three years of poor management and expensive ego.

“Stephen’s practice must be doing well,” I said.

Amber snorted.

“Between us? He’s struggling.

But that’s what happens when you’re too kind.

He needs a woman who pushes him to be ruthless.

That wife of his probably encourages his soft side.”

Soft side.

Stephen had fired two nurses in one month because they questioned his billing procedures.

He had yelled at a receptionist until she cried because his lunch order was wrong.

But sure, his problem was softness.

“Maybe she pays some of the bills,” I said.

Amber’s expression hardened.

“Please.

Stephen is the man.

He provides.”

The words were so absurd that they should have floated away.

Instead, they sat between us, ugly and heavy.

Stephen provided an image.

I provided the structure holding it up.

I excused myself and went to the kitchen.

My phone was on the counter beside a bowl of lemons.

I stared at it for a moment before picking it up.

Stephen was at his golf club.

He went every Saturday unless there was a funeral, a fever, or a tee time he considered more important than both.

I texted him.

Come home immediately.

Household emergency.

His reply came back in less than a minute.

In the middle of a game.

What happened?

I looked toward the living room, where Amber was scrolling through her phone on my sofa.

I typed, The ceiling in your home office collapsed.

Three dots appeared.

Then: Leaving now.

Of course.

Not because I was upset.

Not because I needed him.

Because his home office mattered.

His files mattered.

His framed diplomas mattered.

The things that made him look successful mattered.

I returned to the living room.

Amber looked up.

“Well?”

“Stephen is on his way.”

Her face brightened.

“Finally.

I wanted to surprise him.”

“That’s one word for it.”

She did not catch the tone.

“We’re going to Cabo next week,” she said, suddenly eager to display the life she believed she had won.

“I booked the villa and everything.

Ocean view.

Private pool.

Stephen said I deserve it.”

I folded my hands in my lap.

“Cabo is expensive.”

“Stephen is paying.

Obviously.” She smiled.

“That’s what real men do.”

Obviously.

“How long have you been together?”

“Six months,” she said.

“The best six months of my life.

He takes me everywhere.

Restaurants, hotels, little weekend trips.

Did you know he spent eight thousand dollars