Leaving My Husband

Seven years. Seven years of marriage to Marcus Sterling, and here I was, standing in our Lincoln Park dining room, adjusting the silverware for the third time. The candles I'd lit an hour ago were already halfway burned down, casting a warm glow across the table set with Marcus's favorite dishes—beef Wellington, roasted asparagus, and the chocolate soufflé waiting in the oven, timed to perfection.

I smoothed down the emerald green dress I'd bought specifically for tonight, the fabric hugging my curves in a way I hoped would remind Marcus of the woman he'd fallen in love with, not just the mother of his child. My hair was styled in loose waves, the way he used to like it before Dylan was born, before business calls became more important than dinner conversation.

"Mommy, when is Daddy coming home?" Dylan's small voice called from the doorway. He stood there in his pajamas, clutching his favorite teddy bear.

"Soon, sweetheart," I promised, checking my watch. Two hours late already. "He's just working hard. Now back to bed, okay?"

After tucking Dylan in again, I returned to the dining room and checked my phone. No messages. I sent another text—casual, not nagging: *Dinner's ready whenever you are. Happy Anniversary.*

Another hour passed. The candles burned lower, and I sipped my wine, watching the shadows lengthen across our perfectly decorated home. The home I'd created while putting my marketing career on indefinite hold. The home that sometimes felt more like a beautiful, empty shell than the warm family nest I'd envisioned.

When the front door finally opened at 9:30 PM, I straightened, pasting on a smile. Marcus walked in, his attention fixed on his phone, thumbs tapping rapidly.

"There you are," I said, rising to greet him. "Happy anniversary."

He looked up, momentarily confused, then his expression cleared. "Right. Seven years." He glanced at the elaborate dinner spread. "You didn't have to go to all this trouble."

"I wanted to." I leaned in for a kiss, but he turned his head slightly, so my lips brushed his cheek instead. The scent of his cologne—expensive, subtle—mixed with something else. A floral perfume that wasn't mine.

I pushed the thought away. "I have something for you." I retrieved the small wrapped box from the sideboard and handed it to him.

He unwrapped it methodically, no excitement in his movements. Inside was a platinum watch, its back engraved with our wedding date and the words *Forever Yours*.

"Thank you," he said, glancing at it briefly before setting it aside. "It's nice."

*Nice*. Seven years of marriage reduced to *nice*.

"Aren't you going to try it on?" I asked, unable to keep the disappointment from my voice.

"Later," he said, already walking toward his study. "I need to make some calls. The Westbrook merger is falling apart."

"Marcus, it's our anniversary. Can't the calls wait until morning?"

He paused, his expression hardening. "Isabella, this merger is worth millions. I'm sorry about dinner, but some things can't wait." The