Faking My Death to Divorce You

The champagne flutes caught the candlelight, casting tiny rainbows across the mahogany dining table. I stepped back to admire my work, smoothing down the silk of my red dress—Julian's favorite, the one he'd bought me in Paris during our honeymoon when he still looked at me like I was something precious.

Three years. Three years of marriage, and tonight would be different. It had to be.

The penthouse felt cavernous around me, all glass and steel and cold perfection, but I'd transformed our dining room into something warm and intimate. Rose petals scattered across the table, his favorite scotch breathing in a crystal decanter, and the meal I'd spent all afternoon preparing—beef Wellington, just the way his mother's chef used to make it before she fired him for being "too expensive."

My hand drifted unconsciously to my still-flat stomach. Two weeks. The pregnancy test had shown those two pink lines two weeks ago, and I'd been carrying the secret like a fragile bird in my chest ever since. Tonight, I would tell him. Tonight, everything would change.

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed nine o'clock. Then ten. Then eleven.

I sat at the table, watching the candles burn lower, the wax pooling in elegant puddles. The Wellington had long since gone cold, the carefully arranged vegetables wilted and sad. My phone remained stubbornly silent—no calls, no texts, no acknowledgment that today was supposed to matter.

By the time midnight struck, something hard and familiar settled in my chest. The same feeling I'd carried for months now, the weight of loving someone who had forgotten how to love me back. But tonight was different. Tonight, I had news that would remind him of what we could be.

I slipped on my coat, grabbed my purse, and checked my reflection one last time. The red dress still looked perfect, my makeup unsmudged despite the hours of waiting. The small velvet box in my purse contained the pregnancy test I'd wrapped carefully in tissue paper, along with a note I'd written and rewritten a dozen times: "Our greatest adventure begins now."

The elevator to Knight Industries' executive floor required a special key card—one Julian had given me years ago, back when he still wanted me close. The building was eerily quiet at this hour, just the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant rumble of the city that never slept.

My heels clicked against the marble floors as I walked toward his corner office, my heart hammering against my ribs. The anticipation was almost unbearable—I could picture his face when I told him, the way his eyes might soften the way they used to, the way he might pull me close and whisper that he loved me, that we were going to be a family.

The elevator dinged softly as it reached the forty-second floor. I took a deep breath, smoothing my dress one more time, checking that the gift box was secure in my purse. The doors began to slide open,