Chapter 1
It was our third wedding anniversary, and Mike Larson sent me small change via Venmo tucked inside a digital gift note envelope.
The attached message read:
Thank you for everything, my love.
I was in the kitchen stirring his favorite creamy tomato soup. I'd spent three full slow hours simmering it until it reached the perfect consistency.
My phone buzzed. I wiped my hands dry and opened the alert. A faint smile pulled at my mouth when I spotted the transfer.
Three years as a stay-at-home wife had worn me down, yet those few gentle words made every endless household chore feel worthwhile.
I accepted the funds and texted back.
Whitney: What time will you get home?
I never got a reply.
An hour later, I called his cell. It rolled straight to voicemail.
I decided to head to his office myself. It was our anniversary after all, and I'd hoped we could grab dinner together. I slipped on a nice dress and touched up my lips with the lipstick he'd gifted me the year prior. He'd always claimed the shade suited me perfectly.
I stopped to glance at my reflection before leaving the house. My complexion had lost its youthful radiance, and years of house chores had left my palms rough and calloused. Even so, I'd freshened up enough to look neat and presentable.
I hailed a cab to his office building and sent another text.
Whitney: I'm here to pick you up.
Still no response.
I climbed the stairs to his floor. His office door was left slightly ajar, and I pushed it open.
Mike and his secretary Sara Lynch were seated together on the sofa. She leaned her head on his shoulder, the two of them huddled close to stare at a phone screen. On her feet sat my personal house slippers, the ultra-comfortable pair my mom shipped to me from her out-of-state hometown.
I'd told Mike dozens of times never to let anyone else wear them.
Mike's head snapped upward, frozen the second our eyes locked.
Sara lifted her gaze too, not a trace of unease on her face. She tossed out a casual smile. "Hey, Whitney."
Mike jumped abruptly to his feet. "What are you doing here?"
"Do you know what day it is?" I asked.
He knitted his brows and paused to think. "Is there something important today?"
Sara let out a soft chuckle beside him and said nothing else.
"It's our wedding anniversary," I said plainly.
"Oh, that's right." His voice carried total apathy. "It totally slipped my mind. I'll make it up to you another time."
I said nothing, my gaze drifting down to the slippers on Sara's feet.
Mike's eyes darted away nervously. "She walked so far her feet were throbbing, so I let her borrow them temporarily."
I fixed my eyes on Sara. She made no move to take the slippers off. She even curled her legs further underneath her body, acting as if the slippers belonged to her by right.
I turned on my heel and walked out of the room.
My phone pinged mid-elevator ride. It was a text from Mike.
Mike: Don't overinterpret this. She's just a coworker.
I deleted the message without a second thought.
Stepping out of the office building into the open air, I pulled out my phone and logged into my social media account under the pen name Selena Lane.
This personal account boasted more than three million followers. My content centered on romance, marriage, and women carving out lives that belonged solely to themselves. My most recent essay Why I Don't Advise Women to Become Stay-at-Home Wives racked up more than twenty million cross-platform views.
Mike had absolutely no idea I was the person behind this account.
He'd read multiple pieces I'd written and even urged me to check out the author once. "This Selena Lane woman has incredible perspective. You ought to read her stuff," he said.
I simply nodded and agreed. Then I went right back to preparing his meals, washing his laundry, and tending to his parents every single day.
The wind picked up sharply. I slid my phone back into my purse and headed home.
The soup was still simmering away on the stovetop. I switched off the burner, ladled a bowl for myself, and ate alone.
The soup tasted wonderful.
What a shame he didn't deserve even one spoonful.
