Chapter 1The Mango Clause

At seven, the woman my father brought home gave me a box of mangoes. My mother watched me eat them, her face full of sorrow, then signed the divorce papers and jumped from our window. Mangoes became my nightmare.

On my wedding day, I told my husband, Ethan Carter, "If you want a divorce, give me a mango." From then on, mangoes were his taboo too.

On our fifth Christmas Eve, his childhood sweetheart, Phoebe Summers, put a mango on his desk. That day, Ethan cut ties with her and fired her. I thought he was my destiny.

Six months later, I returned from securing a billion-dollar deal. At the celebration, Ethan handed me a juice. After I drank half, Phoebe appeared behind me, grinning. "How's the mango juice?"

I stared at Ethan. He was stifling a laugh. "Don't be mad, Elara. It was just a joke. I didn't give you a mango, just juice. Phoebe's right—you need to get over this silly quirk. You enjoyed it!"

My face went cold. I threw the rest in his face and walked away. Some things aren't jokes. The mango wasn't. Neither was my decision to file for divorce.

* * *

"Ms. Shaw, you've had a relapse of stress-induced gastritis."

"You must avoid any food that you have an aversion to. Next time, it might not be just stomach pain; it could require surgery."

"We'll keep you for observation overnight. Please notify your family to come as soon as possible."

The doctor's words echoed in the sterile silence. I had just spent 39 grueling days and sleepless nights abroad, fighting for a new project, only to be sent straight to the hospital by a glass of mango juice from my own husband.

I instinctively opened my messaging app, my thumb hovering over his name at the top of my contacts. I typed two letters before I noticed something was wrong.

His profile picture. He'd changed it.

It was a green mango.

As I stared at the screen, dumbfounded, my phone rang. It was Ethan.

His voice was cold. "I'm home. Where are you?"

Silence.

Normally, this is where I would have softened my voice, played the part of the doting wife, and coaxed him with sweet words. But tonight, the words wouldn't come.

His irritation crackled through the phone. "Elara, how long are you going to keep this up?"

"The hospital."

A beat of silence on his end. He never cared about my health. It would never have occurred to him that his "joke" could land me here.

"Stay there. I'm on my way."

I didn't want to see him, but my body was too weak to move.

Time ticked by. The doctor checked on me three times. Ethan never showed up.

Just before I drifted off to sleep, I scrolled through my phone one last time and saw Phoebe's latest social media post:

"My knight in shining armor always shows up to save the day, no matter what~"

The accompanying photo was of Ethan gently applying a bandage to her finger.

Phoebe's profile picture was a ripe, yellow mango.

Beautiful, and utterly sickening.

We had known each other for ten years. Ethan knew my boundaries. As a seasoned businessman, he knew how to maintain a professional distance from other women.

But now, he had crossed the line, again and again.

And so, the thread that held our marriage together, and the new project I had just secured—the billion-dollar European contract that was the lifeblood of his company—no longer needed to exist.