1

On my eighth wedding anniversary, my best friend decided to send me a gift.

A photo.

She was draped across a sofa, a wine glass in hand, smiling like a woman who owned the world.

My son, Owen, was curled up beside her.

And my husband, Elliot, sat on her other side—his hand resting far too comfortably on her thigh.

They looked like a happy little family.

I stared at the image, then typed out two words in reply.

“How perfect.”

Half a hour later, Elliot stormed through the front door. His voice thundered through the hallway.

“Why do you always have to be so bitchy? Always mocking people, always blaming everyone but yourself!”

I didn’t flinch.

Owen, my own little boy, shoved at my leg and glared. “Bad Momma,” he said. “I wish Miss Lila was my real mommy.”

The ache in my chest didn’t even surprise me anymore.

I walked over to the drawer, pulled out the crisp stack of papers I’d been holding onto for far too long, and dropped them on the table with a quiet finality.

“Alright,” I said, my voice calm. “It’s all my fault. Now, can I go?”

…

I’d kept the divorce papers tucked away in the drawer for as long as I could remember.

Just in case.

Not because I didn’t love Elliot or I didn’t want our family to work.

I wasn’t a fool. I’d noticed the signs. Elliot’s distance, the way his eyes lingered too long on the phone or the sudden gaps in his schedule he never quite explained.

But still, he was always a good father to Owen.

And, for a while, he was good to me, too.

So I gave him grace.

A second chance. Maybe even a third. And because today was our eighth wedding anniversary, I told myself to wait—just one more time. To see what he’d do or if he’d choose us.

Elliot had said he’d pick Owen up early from school, then come straight home.

So I cooked. My signature dish—roasted beef, the one he always claimed was his favorite.

I even picked up Owen’s favorite ice cream cake on the way home.

But by the time the clock passed twelve, the food had long gone cold. The cake melted into a puddle.

Then came the photo. Lila. Smiling like she was the one celebrating. Radiant. Victorious.

That was the moment I walked to the drawer and pulled out the papers.

When Elliot finally stumbled through the door, he paused, confused by the sight of them.

“You’re divorcing me because I took Owen to see Lila?” His jaw tightened. “You know how bad things have been for her since her parents died in that gunfight. I told you I was going to visit her today.”

“No,” I said, my voice cool. “You conveniently forgot to mention it. Or maybe you were too busy being there to remember I existed.”

He softened his voice, shifting into his usual act. “Alright. My fault. I lost track of time. But don’t overreact just because I saw Lila.”

He moved toward the table, picking up a plate that hadn’t been touched. “I’ve got it. Go rest a little. Tomorrow I’ll take you out to that restaurant you love.”

There it was.

The same cycle, over and over again. He’d disappear, forget. Then return with sweet words and a well-rehearsed apology. Play the part of the perfect husband and pretend nothing was wrong.

For years, I let him get away with it.

But tonight… it felt different.

I didn’t move or soften or smile and say, “Alright, but don’t forget next time.”

Instead, I stood still. “I’ve already signed the last page,” I said calmly. “If you have any questions, my lawyer will be in touch.”

Elliot threw the plate onto the floor like a child throwing a tantrum.

“You done now?” he snapped. “You have to make everything around you miserable, don’t you? Always the victim. Always selfish.”

I stared at the shards on the floor.

“You can think whatever you want,” I said. “But I’m done living a life like this.”

He scoffed. “Don’t you dare say that I was wrong for visiting her. You forget—it was you who turned her into this. Me and Owen were just… making amends on your behalf.”

Making amends on my behalf?

I blinked slowly.

What exactly was I supposed to apologize for?

…

I once called Lila my best friend.

We grew up together—just the two of us at first. Thick as thieves, inseparable. Then I started dating Elliot, and suddenly, it was the three of us.

Three kids born into different corners of the same underworld.

My family ran casinos.

Elliot’s dealt in drugs.

And Lila? Her parents supplied the weapons that fueled it all.

Once, years ago, Lila’s family arranged a secret meeting at one of my parents’ casinos. A deal not meant for teenage eyes.

But we were young, reckless and curious.

When Lila said she wanted to tag along with her parents to the casino, I didn’t think twice. I said yes.

We ended up in one of the common lounges, just the two of us—sipping sodas, gossiping, giggling over nothing.

Then my mother called me away for something.

I remember glancing over my shoulder as I left, Lila still sitting there, swinging her legs over the velvet couch.

By the time I returned, she was gone.

I assumed she'd gone home with her parents. No big deal. We didn’t always say goodbye.

It wasn’t until the next day that the door to my house shook from Elliot’s fists.

He banged and banged until I opened it, his face twisted with rage.

“How could you?” he shouted. “You gave Lila to those thugs? Treated her like one of the whores your family parades through that casino? She was your best friend!”

I stood there, stunned, barely able to process his words.

Lila wasn’t… safe?

Later, my parents pulled me aside, voices hushed and grim. They told me Lila had somehow ended up in one of the VIP rooms—one reserved for powerful, dangerous men. One of them had taken advantage of her. Humiliated her.

When her parents found out, they demanded revenge. And they ended up dead. Murdered by the very same mafia boss they tried to confront.

But I hadn't known. I was in another room, dealing with something mundane and forgettable.

I had no idea what had happened while I was gone.

And Lila told everyone a different story.

She said I’d lured her there on purpose, that I’d handed her over to that monster to please him. It was all part of some twisted plan, selling her out like she was nothing.

I tried to explain and defend myself.

But there was no security footage. So no evidence.

Just my word against hers.

And in the eyes of everyone around me, the victim’s story always sounded more believable.