I Faked My Death to Escape Being His Wife

I smoothed the fabric of my white cocktail dress, a simple piece I'd chosen with care for tonight. Ten years of marriage. A decade that should have been marked by growth, by love, by the building of a life together. Instead, I stood alone in the elevator ascending to Le Ciel, one of Manhattan's most exclusive restaurants, my reflection in the mirrored walls revealing a woman I barely recognized anymore.

Christian had arranged this dinner—a perfunctory gesture, I knew, but one that had kindled that dangerous thing called hope within me. Perhaps tonight would be different. Perhaps after ten years, he might finally see me.

"Mrs. Sinclair, welcome." The maître d' greeted me with practiced deference. "Mr. Sinclair is already waiting in the private dining room."

I nodded, following him through the main dining area where New York's elite dined under crystal chandeliers. Eyes followed me—some curious, some pitying, some gleefully malicious. I kept my chin lifted, my steps measured. I'd become an expert at pretending I didn't notice.

Christian sat at a table beside floor-to-ceiling windows that showcased Manhattan's glittering skyline. He didn't stand when I entered, merely glanced up from his phone with those ice-blue eyes that never seemed to warm when they looked at me.

"You're late," he said, slipping his phone into his jacket pocket.

I wasn't. I was precisely on time, but I'd learned long ago that correcting Christian only led to frost forming more thickly between us.

"I'm sorry," I said, taking my seat as the waiter pulled out my chair. "Traffic was heavier than expected."

He nodded absently, already signaling for wine. The conversation that followed was painfully stilted—his latest business acquisition, an upcoming board meeting, the weather. Never us. Never the milestone we were supposedly celebrating.

Midway through our entrées, Christian's phone buzzed. Something shifted in his expression as he read the message—a softening I'd spent ten years hoping to inspire.

"Lauren's at The Summit," he said, referring to the exclusive rooftop bar just three floors above us. "She's had too much to drink. I need to check on her."

My fork paused halfway to my mouth. "Christian, it's our anniversary dinner."

"It's just dinner, Natalie." His voice held that edge of impatience I knew too well. "We've had thousands. Lauren needs help."

"Can't someone else—"

"I'll handle the bill on my way out," he interrupted, already standing. He didn't even look at me as he buttoned his jacket. "Don't wait up."

And just like that, he was gone. No apology. No backward glance. Just the lingering scent of his cologne and the hollow echo of his footsteps.

I sat there, surrounded by half-eaten food and the pitying glances of the waitstaff, my hands trembling slightly as I reached for my water glass. This was nothing new. This was my life—being left behind for Lauren Parker, my childhood friend turned rival, the woman Christian couldn't seem to live without despite the ring on my finger.

Eventually, I settled the bill myself and