On New Year’s Eve, I caught my husband cheating on a drone livestream.

I was scrolling through my phone when the Chicago Tonight broadcast popped up. The Chicago Riverwalk was ablaze with lights, fireworks exploding over the water.

And right there, in the center of the frame, was Daniel Hale—my husband of five years—kissing his childhood friend, Claire Bennett.

I calmly closed the stream and dialed his number.

It rang for a long time. When he finally answered, the background was loud and chaotic.

"Where are you?" I asked.

A brief pause. "The office," he said. "Didn't I tell you I had to work late?"

"Working late with Claire?"

The line went dead quiet.

I heard my own voice, so steady it sounded like a stranger's.

"You always do this. When you don't have an answer, you just go silent."

"Not anymore."

~~~~~

I hung up.

The dining room was suffocatingly quiet. The New Year’s dinner I’d spent all afternoon cooking—roast chicken, pasta, salad, roasted vegetables, baked fish, potato gratin, and a hot soup—had gone ice cold.

I stared at the spread for a long time.

Five years ago today, Daniel and I were sitting in our cramped apartment, huddled around a tiny space heater, eating cheap spicy stew.

That was the night he pulled out a velvet box.

"Nat, marry me."

Inside was a cheap silver ring.

"It’s all I can afford right now," he’d said, his eyes burning with a fierce, bright promise. "But I swear, I’ll upgrade it to a diamond one day."

I was still wearing that silver ring. The band had tarnished, but I’d never had the heart to take it off.

He told me he would give me the best life possible.

And I believed him.

When we first launched Hale Systems, it was just the two of us. He handled the tech; I managed the finances, operations, and clients. By day, he wrote code while I pitched to investors. By night, we packed shipments together, eating instant ramen in the stairwell of our apartment building.

Once, rushing to meet a bidding deadline, I slept eight hours in three days and ended up passing out in a print shop.

Daniel carried me to the hospital on his back, his hands shaking the entire time.

His eyes were red. "We're done. Nat, we're not doing this anymore. I'll go get a regular job. I can't let you exhaust yourself like this."

I shook my head. "No. We're almost there. I can hold on."

And we did it.

The day we secured our first round of funding, Daniel spun me around the office, then suddenly dropped to his knees and buried his face in my stomach.

My shirt was soaked with his tears.

"Natalie," he’d whispered. "I will treat you right for the rest of my life."

By year three, the company took off. We bought a house. We upgraded our cars.

By year four, he got down on one knee again and replaced the silver with a diamond.

"Let's have a baby."

I touched my stomach, smiling as I nodded.

I had just secured my position as Director of Business Operations. But looking at the hope in his eyes, I handed in my resignation letter anyway.

Two months into the pregnancy, my morning sickness was so severe I had to be hospitalized. Daniel practically lived between the office and my hospital room, the dark circles under his eyes terrifyingly deep.

I touched his cheek. "Hire a nurse."

He shook his head. "You're my wife. It's my job to take care of you."

I thought that was what happiness looked like.

Until six months ago, when Claire got divorced and moved back to Chicago with her kid.

Daniel went to pick her up himself. He came home late that night, his jacket reeking of a perfume I didn't recognize.

"Claire just finalized her divorce," he said, shrugging off his coat. "She's back in town, raising a kid on her own. She needs help. I found her a place to stay."

From that day on, "needs help" became Claire’s ultimate trump card.

Her car broke down? Daniel went to fix it.

Her son got sick? Daniel went with them to the hospital.

She was feeling depressed? Daniel stayed out drinking with her until dawn.

My questions turned into doubts, and my doubts turned into screaming matches.

"Natalie, you never used to be like this," he’d say.

"Daniel, neither did you."

Eventually, he just stopped talking.

Whether I cried or demanded answers, he would just look at me in silence, then turn around and walk out.

Leaving me alone, looking like an emotionally unstable madwoman.

And tonight, he couldn't even be bothered to come up with a decent lie.

He said he was at the office. But he was on a city-wide Riverwalk broadcast, kissing another woman.

The sound of the front door unlocking pulled me back.

Daniel walked in. He froze when he saw me sitting alone at the table with the cold dinner.

"You're still up?"

I didn't answer.

He walked closer. The smell of her perfume hit my stomach like a physical blow.

"Something came up at work—"

"Prenatal checkup tomorrow," I cut him off. "Eight a.m."

Daniel opened his mouth, the lie dying in his throat.

I stood up. As I turned to leave, he caught my wrist.

"Natalie, I'm sorry." His voice dropped. "It was just tonight. It won't happen again. Once Claire gets settled—"

I gently pulled my hand free.

"Don't bother waiting."

"Daniel, we're getting a divorce."