HE WASN’T COMING.
I sat in the living room, my skin ice cold as I watched the minutes tick by. It was past eight. We were supposed to leave for DC two hours ago, but I hadn’t seen or heard from Dominic since he left for work that morning. My calls had gone to voicemail, and I refused to check in with his office like some random acquaintance begging for a minute of the great Dominic Davenport’s time.
I was his wife, dammit. I shouldn’t have to chase him down or guess his whereabouts. Then again, it didn’t take a genius to figure out what he was doing right now.
Working. Always working. Even on our ten-year anniversary. Even after I’d stressed how important this trip was.
I finally had a good reason to cry, but no tears came. I just felt…numb. A part of me had expected him to forget or postpone, and wasn’t that the saddest part?
“Mrs. Davenport!” Our housekeeper, Camila, entered the room, her arms laden with freshly laundered linen. She’d returned from her vacation last night and had spent the day tidying up the penthouse. “I thought you already left.”
“No.” My voice sounded strange and hollow. “I don’t think I’ll be going anywhere this weekend after all.”
“Why…” She trailed off, her eagle eyes taking in the luggage next to the couch and my white-knuckled grip on my knees. Her round, matronly face softened with a mix of sympathy and pity. “Ah. In that case, I’ll make dinner for you. Moqueca. Your favorite, hmm?”
Ironically, the fish stew was what my old childhood housekeeper made me when I was heartbroken over a boy. I wasn’t hungry, but I didn’t have the energy to argue.
“Thanks, Camila.”
While she bustled off to the kitchen, I tried to sort through the chaos swirling through my brain.
Cancel all our reservations or wait? Is he simply late or is he not going on the trip at all? Do I even want to go on this trip now, even if he does?
Dominic and I were supposed to spend the weekend in DC, where we’d met and gotten married. I had it all planned out—dinner at our first-date restaurant, a suite at a cozy boutique hotel, no phones or work allowed. It was supposed to be a trip for us. As our relationship frayed further every day, I’d hoped it would bring us closer again. Make us fall in love the way we had a lifetime ago.
But I realized that was impossible because neither of us was the same person we used to be. Dominic wasn’t the boy who gave himself a hundred paper cuts making origami versions of my favorite flowers for my birthday, and I wasn’t the girl who floated through life with stars and dreams in her eyes.
“I don’t have the money to buy you all the flowers you deserve yet,” he said, sounding so solemn and formal I couldn’t help but smile at the contrast between his tone and the jar of colorful paper flowers in his hands. “So I made them instead.”
My breath caught in my throat. “Dom…”
There must’ve been hundreds of flowers in there. I didn’t want to think about how long it took him to make them.
“Happy birthday, amor.” His mouth lingered on mine in a long, sweet kiss. “One day, I’ll buy you a thousand real roses. I promise.”
He’d kept that promise, but he’d broken a thousand more since.
A salty trickle finally snaked its way down my cheek and shocked me out of my frozen stupor.
I stood, my breaths shallowing with each step as I walked quickly to the nearest bathroom. Camila and the staff were too busy to notice my silent breakdown, but I couldn’t bear the thought of crying alone in the living room, surrounded by luggage that would go nowhere and hopes that’d been shattered too many times to mend properly.
So, so stupid.
What made me think tonight would be different? Our anniversary probably meant as much to Dominic as a random Friday night dinner.
Dull pain sharpened into knives as I locked the bathroom door behind me. My reflection stared back from the mirror. Brown hair, blue eyes, tanned skin. I looked the same as I always did, but I hardly recognized myself. It was like seeing a stranger wear my face.
Where was the girl who’d pushed back against her mother’s modeling dreams for her and insisted on going to college instead? Who’d lived life with unapologetic joy and unbridled optimism, and who’d once dumped a boy for forgetting her birthday? That girl would’ve never sat around waiting for a man. She’d had goals and dreams, but somewhere along the way, they’d fallen by the wayside, consumed by the gravity of her husband’s ambition.
If I pleased him, if I organized the right dinners with the right people, if I made the right connections, I would be useful to him. Years of helping him accomplish his dreams meant I hadn’t lived—I’d served a purpose.
Alessandra Ferreira was gone, replaced by Alessandra Davenport. Wife, hostess, socialite. Someone defined only by her marriage to the Dominic Davenport. Everything I did for the past decade had been for him, and he didn’t even care enough to call and tell me he’d be late for our fucking ten- year anniversary.
The dam burst.
A solitary tear turned into two, then three, then a whole flood as I sank to the floor and cried. Every heartbreak, every disappointment, every piece of sadness and resentment I’d harbored poured out in a river of grief edged with anger. I’d bottled up so much over the years that I was afraid I’d drown beneath the waves of my own emotions.
Cold, hard tile dug into the backs of my thighs. For the first time in forever, I allowed myself to feel, and with that came blinding clarity.
I couldn’t do this anymore.
I couldn’t spend the rest of my days going through the motions and pretending to be happy. I had to take back control of my life—even if it meant destroying the one I currently had.
I was hollow and brittle, a million shattered pieces that hurt too much to pick up.
My sobs eventually slowed then subsided altogether, and before I could second-guess myself, I pushed off the floor and stepped back into the hall. The temperature-controlled penthouse maintained a perfect seventy-three degrees year-round, but tiny shivers wracked my body as I grabbed what I needed from the bedroom. The rest of my essentials were already packed and waiting in the living room.
I didn’t allow myself to think. If I did, I would chicken out, and I couldn’t afford to at this stage.
A familiar sparkle caught my eye when I pulled my suitcase handle up. I stared at my wedding ring, a fresh ache tearing through my chest as it blinked up at me in a seeming plea to reconsider.
I faltered for a split second before I set my jaw, slid the ring off my finger, and placed it next to my and Dominic’s wedding picture on the mantel.
Then I finally did what I should’ve done a long time ago. I left.
