Wife Leaves Her Unfaithful Husband for a New Start

I smoothed the emerald silk dress over my knees, the same one Soren had once said made my eyes sparkle like jewels. That compliment felt like it belonged to another lifetime now. The candlelight at Skyline Restaurant cast a warm glow across the white tablecloth, illuminating the single glass of wine I'd been nursing for the past hour.

Around me, couples leaned into each other, sharing intimate conversations and laughter. A woman at the next table threw her head back in delight at something her partner said, her diamond engagement ring catching the light. I checked my phone for the twelfth time in thirty minutes.

No messages. No missed calls.

"Would you like to order now, ma'am?" The waiter approached with practiced sympathy in his eyes.

"Just a few more minutes, please. My husband is running late." I forced a smile that didn't reach my eyes. "He's caught up with work."

The waiter nodded, too professional to show the pity I knew was there. "Perhaps some appetizers while you wait?"

"Yes, that would be fine." I ordered something I wouldn't have to eat alone—a plate we could share when Soren arrived.

But the appetizers came and went. I ordered a main course, then dessert, creating a one-woman performance of someone who wasn't being stood up on her anniversary. Each time the restaurant door opened, my heart leapt, only to sink again when strangers walked through.

Three hours had passed when a delivery person in a black jacket approached my table.

"Mrs. Carter?" he asked, holding a single to-go coffee cup.

"It's Brooks," I corrected automatically, though I'd stopped doing that months ago. "Mrs. Brooks-Carter."

He handed me the cup with an apologetic shrug. Attached was a hastily scribbled note on Carter Capital letterhead:

*Meg—Urgent client presentation that couldn't wait. Don't hold dinner. See you at home. —S*

No mention of our anniversary. No apology. Just a lukewarm coffee that tasted of obligation.

I paid the bill, ignoring the waiter's sympathetic glance, and left with as much dignity as I could muster.

* * *

Our penthouse was dark when I arrived home just after 10 PM. I kicked off my heels in the marble-floored foyer, the sound echoing through the empty space. This place had never felt like mine—it was a showpiece for Soren's success, all chrome and glass and expensive minimalism.

I moved through the kitchen, noticing Soren's laptop still warm on the counter. Carmen Hill's project files glowed on the screen—complex spreadsheets and a PowerPoint titled "Henderson Acquisition Strategy." My fingers hovered over the keyboard, tempted to search for more, but I pulled back.

When had I become this person? The wife who wanted to snoop through her husband's computer?

I opened the trash can to throw away the coffee cup and froze. Inside were takeout containers for two—his favorite Thai place, with remnants of pad thai and green curry. Two sets of disposable chopsticks.

My stomach twisted as I made my way to the bedroom, unfastening my