chapter 1

He spent National Day with his comrade's widow. The whole night.

When I confronted him, he looked at me like I was being unreasonable.

"It's National Day. Lois gets emotional on days like this. What's the big deal? I stayed with her for a bit. She was my battle buddy's widow. What could possibly happen? Stop making a scene."

Ten years of marriage, and it ended with a slap across my face and a divorce agreement slammed in front of me.

Lois Odell, the widow who swore she was innocent, now strutted around with her pregnancy bump, flaunting it right in my face.

I refused to play her game.

Not until that night—when I saw it in the security footage—someone who was supposed to be dead, his mouth moving against her ear in intimate conspiracy.

…

National Day. A day for barbecues and picnics.

But I had none. My husband spent all night with his dead comrade's wife.

He didn't slink back until morning, Lois still clinging to his arm. Her face glowed; his looked pleased.

"Where were you?" The question left my lips like shrapnel.

He had the grace to look startled—for a second. Then the mask of righteousness slid into place. "Lois was alone. The holiday... it's hard for her. She was crying. I was being a friend. What's the problem?"

"The problem?" My laugh was a cold, sharp thing. "Juan Davis. Have you forgotten? You have a wife. A breathing one. For ten years."

He blinked, caught off guard for a moment, then quickly shrugged it off. "Don't be that woman, Lydia. She's Mark Kelly's widow. My brother's wife. It's my duty to look after her."

On cue, Lois's eyes welled up. She leaned into him, a delicate bird seeking shelter.

"Lydia… I'm so sorry," she whispered, her voice a masterpiece of tremulous guilt. "It was my fault. Juan was just… comforting me. Please don't be mad at him."

She was a vision of fragile femininity. Designed to be protected.

And Juan played his part perfectly. He moved to shield her, his hand on her arm. "Don't say anything, Lois. You're still recovering, don't stress yourself out."

The room tilted.

In ten years, he had never looked at me with that softness.

"Juan, you're protecting her like this?" I took a step forward, staring him down. "Did you ever remember you have a wife? I'm asking you one thing right now—are you going to keep your distance from her, or not?"

He hesitated.

A single, silent fracture in time. It was enough. I felt something in my chest freeze and shatter.

"I see." The words were quiet. I pulled the divorce documents from the drawer. They hit the glass tabletop with the finality of a gunshot. "Since she matters more—have her."

His face contorted. His hand moved faster than thought. The slap was a white-hot explosion of sound.

I stared at him in disbelief, my palm pressed to burning skin.

Ten years of partnership, shattered by a dead man's widow.

"Fine. We're done." His voice thickened with contempt. "You, a housewife? Let's see how long you last. Don't come crawling back in a few days."

Lois stepped forward, her face painted with faux guilt as she tried to intervene. "Juan, maybe we should just let it go… I really don't want you two to fight because of me. I will feel so sorry if you keep arguing..."

Her eyes met mine over his shoulder. No guilt there—only a cool, victorious gleam.

I saw it. Crystal clear.

My hands trembled, but my voice was ice cold. "Don't worry. Ten years of my life wasted on you. Don't expect me to come back."