When my husband fell seriously ill, I finally had a reason to step into his office after seven years of marriage. All I wanted was to ask for his sick leave. Instead, the receptionist froze, eyes widening as she studied my face. “The man you’re talking about… he owns this company. Our boss and his wife arrive and leave together every day. Unless… you’re not his wife.” In that second, my world cracked open.

The words made me pause, but only for a moment.

“I don’t mean the money,” he added quickly. “I mean… I miss coming home to someone who actually asked how my day was. Someone who made soup when I was sick. Who sat on the floor with me when everything fell apart and still believed I could get back up.”

I looked at him properly for the first time in weeks.

He looked older. The arrogance that once wrapped around him like a coat had frayed. He still wore suits, but they weren’t bespoke anymore. Alimony payments and garnished wages had taken a bite out of his lifestyle. There were faint lines around his mouth that hadn’t been there before.

I waited for the familiar ache in my chest.

It didn’t come.

“You don’t miss me,” I said gently. “You miss having a fan. A soft place to land. Someone who made you feel like a hero even when you weren’t.” I set my tablet down. “I spent eight years trying to be that person. I’m done.”

He looked away, jaw clenched.

I picked up my bag.

“Oh, and Steven,” I added on my way out.

“Yes?” he asked, turning back with a flicker of something—hope, maybe, though I hated to name it.