Chapter 1He Wore My Robe For Her

It was International Women’s Day, a day supposedly meant for honoring the women who anchor our lives. Instead, I watched my husband hand a bouquet of fresh-cut peonies—the ones he’d promised were for our anniversary dinner—to the woman living in the apartment next door.

His first love.

“She’s been living alone for so many years, Diana,” Parker said, his voice smooth but hurried. “It’s Women’s Day. I just wanted to do something kind. Don't worry, I’ll be back in five minutes and then we’re straight to the theater, okay?”

He was wearing the deep navy silk robe I’d bought him for Christmas. It was cinched loosely, the collar hanging open to reveal far more skin than was appropriate for a neighborly visit.

We had been married for five years. The last time I’d seen him look this frantic, this desperate, was three years ago when I’d come home early from a business trip. I’d walked into the living room to find him entangled with that same woman on our velvet sofa.

The image of their pale, intertwined limbs had seared itself into my retinas.

Back then, he had dropped to his knees, sobbing. He didn’t even bother to wipe the sweat from his face; he just grabbed a throw blanket to cover Lydia, his high school sweetheart.

“Rose, please... she seduced me. I didn’t want this, I swear!”

“Don’t leave me. Please, I’m begging you...”

I stayed. I stayed for the sake of our families—our fathers had been business partners for decades, and our lives were woven together in a tapestry of social obligations. For a long time, he was a model husband. He was attentive, domestic, and eager to please me in every way possible.

Until tonight.

I looked at the restless hunger in his eyes and reached out to straighten the ribbon on the bouquet.

“Go on then,” I said quietly. “Give them to her while they’re still fresh.”

I knew, even as the words left my mouth, that after those flowers were delivered, there would be no "us" left to save.

* * *

Parker clearly hadn't expected me to cave so easily.

He froze for a second, then a look of pure, boyish relief broke across his face. He leaned in to pull me into a hug.

“Thanks, babe! You’re the best, seriously. I’ll be back before you can even pick out a pair of shoes!”

I tilted my head, letting his kiss land harmlessly on my cheek. But I couldn't stop the last shred of wife-like instinct from speaking up.

“Parker, it’s pouring out there. You’re going out in just your robe?”

He hesitated, his gaze flickering toward the door. “Lydia keeps her place like a sauna. I’ll be fine. I’m literally going twenty feet. I’ll be right back.”

“I mean it,” he added, almost as a challenge to himself.

He didn't look back at me. He slipped out the door and into the hallway. A few heartbeats later, I heard the heavy thud of the door next door closing. It felt like a physical blow to my chest.

I walked over to the window. From this angle, I could see the glow of Lydia’s living room. She was standing there in a silk slip dress that left nothing to the imagination. As soon as Parker entered, she threw herself into his arms.

Parker didn't pull away. He didn't even pretend to. He wrapped his arms around her, their heads leaning together in a dark, intimate whisper.

Then, slowly, the curtains were drawn, cutting off the view and leaving me in the shadows of our own apartment.

I looked at my phone. 8:00 PM.

The gala we were supposed to attend was starting.

I looked at the few stray flowers left on the table—the rejects he hadn’t put in her bouquet. A wave of nausea rolled through me. I picked up the half-empty bottle of expensive red wine I’d opened and dumped it, along with the wilting flowers, into the trash.

This five-year marriage was exactly like those flowers: something that should never have been forced to live this long. I was the only one tending the soil, and I’d finally run out of water.

Half an hour passed. Parker didn't return.

The TV was on in the background, some festive special blaring cheerful music that felt like a mockery of my stupidity. I sat on the sofa, watching my phone screen light up and dim, light up and dim.

The family group chat was exploding. Cousins were posting photos from various parties and events.

A message from my mother popped up, tagging me: “Diana, where’s Parker? Why haven’t you posted any photos of the two of you tonight?”

“You guys better be out celebrating! Send me a picture of that dress you bought!”

Reading her voice in my head made my throat tighten. My mother adored Parker. Three years ago, when I’d caught him, she was the one who held my hand and begged me to give him another chance. She reminded me of how much our families owed each other, how a scandal would break my father’s heart.

I forced a smile I didn't feel and took a photo of the discarded bouquet on the counter from an angle that looked intentional. I texted back: “He’s tied up with something right now, Mom. I’ll call you in a bit.”

Just as I set the phone down, a notification red dot appeared on my Instagram feed.

It was Lydia.

It was a photo of the peonies in a crystal vase. In the blurred background, you could clearly see the distinctive navy silk of Parker’s robe.

The caption read: Another year ends, and you’re still the only one by my side. Thank you for always being there.

Parker had already "liked" it.

I let out a short, dry laugh. I was done waiting.

I stood up, walked into our bedroom, and pulled my suitcase from the top of the closet.

I had bought this penthouse with my own money when we got married. Parker had lived here, rent-free, for years. I’d chosen this building specifically because there were only two units per floor, thinking it would give us privacy. Now, his designer suits took up three-quarters of the walk-in closet.

As I started packing, I realized with a jolt how little of "me" was actually in this room. I couldn't find a single thing in the apartment that he had bought for me out of genuine thought.

Five years, and we were less than roommates. We were a business arrangement that had gone bankrupt.

I shook my head, tucked my passport and some essentials into my bag, and moved to the study to gather my professional files. By the time I was finished, it was nearly midnight.

I sat back on the sofa and waited until the clock struck twelve before calling him.

It rang for a long time. When he finally picked up, the background was loud—music, laughter. Parker sounded breathless, his voice laced with an edge of annoyance.

“Hey. Look, Diana, I’m on my way back. Lydia’s still showing me her new art pieces, okay?”

Right as he finished the sentence, I heard a woman’s low, melodic giggle on the other end.

A second later, Parker’s voice hitched, turning into a muffled groan. “Mmm… Diana… I gotta go…”

The line went dead.