He Saved Her, I Burned

Aria's Point of View

The silk dress clung to my skin as I adjusted the candlelit table for the third time, my fingers trembling slightly as I straightened the white roses I'd arranged this morning. Three years. Three years of marriage, and I still felt like I was auditioning for the role of Julian's wife.

The apartment gleamed under the warm glow of the candles I'd placed throughout our dining room. His favorite wine—a 2018 Bordeaux that cost more than most people's weekly groceries—waited in the crystal decanter my mother had given us as a wedding gift. The dinner I'd spent all afternoon preparing sat warming in the kitchen: herb-crusted lamb with rosemary potatoes, exactly how he liked it.

I caught my reflection in the darkened window and smoothed down my hair one more time. The emerald dress was new, chosen specifically because Julian had once mentioned how green brought out my eyes. Everything had to be perfect tonight.

The sound of his key in the lock made my heart skip. I quickly lit the final candle and positioned myself by the table, forcing my lips into what I hoped was a welcoming smile.

"Aria?" Julian's voice carried a distracted edge as he stepped through the door.

"In here," I called softly, watching as he rounded the corner into the dining room.

He stopped short, taking in the scene with those dark eyes that had once made me feel like the only woman in the world. Now they seemed to look through me, as if I were just another piece of furniture he'd grown accustomed to.

"What's all this?" he asked, loosening his tie with one hand while checking his phone with the other.

The question hit like a small slap. "It's our anniversary, Julian. Three years."

His fingers paused on his phone screen, and for a moment, something flickered across his face—guilt, maybe, or just mild irritation at having forgotten. "Right. Of course. I'm sorry, I've been distracted today."

Distracted. The word he always used when his mind was somewhere else, with someone else.

"It's okay," I lied, the same automatic response I'd perfected over months of similar moments. "I made your favorite dinner."

Julian slipped his phone into his pocket, but I could see the way his fingers twitched toward it, like an addict fighting withdrawal. "That's... that's wonderful, Aria. Really."

He moved to his chair, but his movements were mechanical, perfunctory. As I served the lamb, I watched him from the corner of my eye. His jaw was tense, his gaze unfocused, as if he were solving complex equations in his head rather than celebrating our marriage.

"How was your day?" I asked, settling into my own chair and picking up my wine glass. The Bordeaux tasted like ash on my tongue.

"Busy. The Morrison account is demanding changes to the entire campaign strategy." His fork moved the food around his plate more than it actually delivered any to his mouth. "And there's been some... developments with