Reclaiming Her Song

I arrived at Maison Laurent thirty minutes early, smoothing the silk of my burgundy dress as the maître d' led me to our reserved table. The restaurant glowed with soft amber light, crystal glasses catching and scattering it across white tablecloths. Five years ago, Nathan had proposed to me in this very restaurant, dropping to one knee beside a violinist playing Debussy's "Clair de Lune."

"Mrs. Hayes, would you like to order a drink while you wait?" the server asked, his voice gentle with practiced sympathy. I wondered how many lonely wives he served each night in this temple to Los Angeles romance.

"A glass of the Cabernet, please." I placed my phone face-down on the table, refusing to check it again.

By the time the wine arrived, I had already memorized every detail of our corner table—the delicate fold of the napkins, the precise alignment of the silverware, the soft flicker of the candle between us. I took a long sip, letting the wine coat my tongue, and finally allowed myself to acknowledge what I'd known since I'd dressed alone in our bedroom: Nathan wasn't coming.

At the forty-five-minute mark, I ordered the bottle.

"Your husband?" the server asked, his eyes darting to the empty chair across from me.

"Busy," I replied, forcing a smile that felt like glass cutting into my cheeks. "The hazards of being married to the music industry."

By the second glass, my resolve crumbled. I picked up my phone, thumb hovering over Instagram. I shouldn't look. I knew what I would find. Yet I tapped the icon anyway, muscle memory guiding me to Nathan's profile.

There it was, posted twenty minutes ago—Nathan and Scarlett Morgan at the Troubadour, their faces inches apart as they shared a microphone. His hand rested on the small of her back, fingers splayed possessively against the sequins of her dress. The audience's phones created a constellation of lights behind them, capturing the moment that was apparently more important than our anniversary.

I scrolled through the comments, each one a tiny dagger.

*The chemistry between these two is FIRE* 🔥

*Power couple alert!*

*Is it just me or are they totally sleeping together?*

I switched to Scarlett's Stories—a series of clips from the same performance. Her throaty laugh as Nathan whispered something in her ear. His fingers brushing hers as they adjusted a sound level. The casual intimacy of two people who had forgotten anyone else existed.

"Would you like to order dinner, Mrs. Hayes?" The server was back, his pity now unmistakable.

"No, thank you. Just the check." I drained my third glass of wine, feeling it burn a path down my throat. "Actually, I'll take the rest of the bottle."

I carried it with me like a trophy of my humiliation, walking out with my head high, leaving behind the anniversary that never was.

* * *

It was after midnight when I heard Nathan's key in the lock. I sat in the darkness of our living room,