“Where?”
I smiled.
“The hotel where we spent our wedding night.”
Ryan loved the idea.
For the next three days, he behaved like a man who had already won.
He bought a new dark blue fitted shirt, the kind he knew looked good on him.
The afternoon of our reservation, I found him packing an overnight bag.
“You think we need champagne?” he asked.
I glanced at the bag.
“Probably not.”
He grinned.
“Mysterious.”
I smiled back.
“That’s the idea.”
By the time we arrived at the hotel, Ryan was practically glowing.
The place looked almost exactly as I remembered from our wedding night—soft lighting, white tablecloths, piano music drifting from the lobby.
Ryan reached across the table and took my hand.
“You look beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“I mean it. You really do.”
He went on about how good it was to see me “back to myself,” how much happier I seemed, and how much better our marriage had become.
I let him talk.
Eventually, he leaned back and smiled.
“You know, sometimes people need tough motivation.”
I looked at him.
“What do you mean?”
“You were stuck. I pushed you a little. Maybe I wasn’t gentle about it, but look at you now.”
He raised his glass.
“I knew you’d thank me eventually.”
I held his gaze, then smiled.
“Actually, I do have something for you.”
His eyebrows rose.
“For me?”
Right on cue, a waiter approached carrying a large black box tied with a white ribbon.
Ryan’s face lit up.
I slid it toward him.
“You could say that.”
He laughed softly and reached for the ribbon.
“You really went all out.”
“I wanted it to be memorable.”
Ryan untied the bow and lifted the lid.
His smile vanished.
Inside was a thick envelope resting on top of two neatly folded restaurant bills.
He picked up the envelope.
“What is this?”
“Open it.”
He pulled out the papers, scanned the first page, and froze.
His eyes snapped toward me.
“Divorce papers?”
I said nothing.
“Claire, what the hell is this?”
He dropped the papers onto the table and grabbed the first bill.
Tonight’s dinner.
Then the second.
It was from earlier that evening at another restaurant inside the hotel—dinner for two, with wine and dessert.
Ryan saw the name beside the reservation.
Hannah.
“Why is her name on this?”
I leaned back.
“For almost a year, you kept telling me I needed to change. Lose weight. Look better. Become someone you could still be attracted to.”
“Claire—”
“So I changed.”
He opened his mouth.
“The problem is, I didn’t become the woman you expected.”
“This is ridiculous.” His voice dropped. “Whatever you think you know—”
“You should probably read the whole thing.”
The voice came from behind him.
Ryan went completely still.
Then he turned.
