Chapter 1

While my wife, Hathaway, was popping champagne with her male best friend at her company, I was dragging my suitcase out the door, leaving behind a signed divorce agreement.

Before I left, I didn’t forget to post on Twitter: "I'm leaving. The space is all yours now."

Half an hour later, my phone rang. It was her. "James, have you had enough of your little tantrums?!"

I couldn't help but sneer. I don't want you anymore, Hathaway. I don't care who you sleep with.

And yet, suddenly, she was the one panicking.

On my birthday, I drove Hathaway to work. Before she got out of the car, I asked her, "It's my birthday today. Come home early. I have something important to tell you."

She stayed silent for a long time before finally nodding.

Hathaway and I had been married for three years.

She was a high-powered corporate executive at a publicly traded company. I was a freelance designer. I took private commissions and made a decent living, but compared to Hathaway, it was pennies.

As a man, most would feel insecure having a wife who made so much more. But I never did.

I had known Hathaway since I was sixteen. It was love at first sight. She was three years older than me.

When I was a freshman in high school, she returned as an outstanding alumna to give a speech. Her elegant, sharp profile on that stage became branded into my memory.

After her speech, I wanted to take a picture with her, but the crowd was too thick. I couldn't get close.

In a fit of desperation, I yelled at the top of my lungs, "Hey, Blue Smurf!"

She paused, looking back with a smile. I clicked the shutter, capturing that exact moment.

I followed her footsteps all the way to Princeton, becoming her junior.

It took me three years of chasing her just to get her to agree to date me. If her family hadn't been pressuring her to get married back then, I would have never stood a chance.

Only after we got married did I realize—some hearts are just made of stone. You can never warm them up.

Today was my birthday. I had specially ordered a cake and cooked a full dinner, waiting for her to come home.

But I waited from six in the evening until nine, and there was no sign of her.

I couldn't help but call her, but it went straight to voicemail.

Just as I was about to give up, Harry sent me a video.

In the video, Hathaway was laughing, her arm wrapped tightly around his neck. Her colleagues were cheering around them, popping expensive champagne.

"James, Hathaway just locked down the massive NICE project. We're celebrating. Don't be a party pooper!"

Harry's text shattered the very last piece of hope in my heart.

I should have known. Hathaway always put me last.

I didn't reply. I just reheated the food, ate alone, lit the single candle, and blew it out. I made a wish.

At sixteen, my wish was to spend the rest of my life with Hathaway.

At twenty-six, my wish was to let her go, and finally free myself.

I had noticed the strange dynamic between Hathaway and Harry a year ago.

He was her "male best friend." Whenever Hathaway was stressed or tired, Harry was always her first phone call.

Whenever she couldn't crack a tough business case, Harry would step in and save the day.

At first, I thought he was just her trusted colleague. But then I noticed the way Harry looked at her. It wasn't innocent.

Their physical touch had crossed the line of normal friendship long ago.

And then, I started receiving anonymous texts. My phone was flooded with intimate photos of the two of them.

The first time it happened, my heart raced with panic. I confronted Hathaway, but she just looked at me with pure annoyance.

"James, it’s just a hug. We are friends. Stop acting so dramatic."

I begged her to keep her distance. I even tried to make her jealous by hugging someone else in front of her.

But Hathaway saw right through me. She gave me the silent treatment for a whole week. She used her actions to tell me: threats don't work on her.

After that, I stopped fighting. I just made a silent vow to myself: once I received one hundred photos, I would leave.

I hadn't reached one hundred yet, but I couldn't take it anymore.

Each photo felt like a sharp blade, carving into my flesh until I was bleeding out.

By midnight, Hathaway still hadn't come home.

My birthday was officially over. The things I wanted to tell her didn't matter anymore.

I packed my bags, left the divorce papers on the kitchen island, and walked away without looking back.

Some things, if you don't do them now, you never will.

The next morning, I took the earliest flight to New York. Aside from escaping, I had one vital thing to do.