Chapter 1: Two Million Reasons to Leave

My wife is a drama queen. She’s always demanding I prove my love for her—every single day, without fail. I try—really try—to indulge her little tantrums, even when they make me want to roll my eyes.

Some mornings, I wake up already bracing for her next act—waiting for the moment she’ll sigh dramatically over her coffee or throw a fit about the wrong brand of almond milk. I’ve learned to weather these storms with a kind of practiced patience, the way you’d deal with a particularly spoiled housecat knocking things off the counter just to watch you react. Sometimes, I wonder if she even realizes how much I bend to her moods. Probably not.

Until one day, she tells me she has a guy willing to pay two million dollars if I’ll divorce her. She asks me what I think. Like it’s just another game.

She says it with a toss of her hair, voice light but eyes sharp, like she’s waiting to see me explode. I mean, two million dollars—she lets it hang in the air, like I’m supposed to freak out or something. But all I can do is stare at her, wondering if she really thinks I haven’t noticed the signs.

I glance at the faint hickey showing beneath her collar and quietly say four words: “Couldn’t ask for more.” My words come out flat, but inside, I feel something like relief. Finally, an out. God, I never thought I’d feel this relieved.

She doesn’t know I’ve been waiting for this day for a long time. If only she knew.

I’ve played this scene in my head a hundred times. The day she’d finally want out, and I could let go. I keep my face blank, not letting her see the small satisfaction flickering inside me.

My wife, Autumn Lancaster, just stares at me. She digs at her ear, narrows her catlike eyes, and asks, “Miles Whitaker, what did you just say?”

She’s got that look she uses when she thinks I’ve missed a cue in her script—like I’m supposed to grovel or get angry. Her voice is sharp, but there’s a tremor underneath. She’s not sure what she wants from me anymore. I can tell.

So I say it again. “I said ‘couldn’t ask for more.’ You can get a divorce whenever you want.” I watch her shoulders tense, her jaw working as she tries to process this new reality where I don’t beg or plead.

There’s a beat of silence, thick and awkward, like the air before a summer thunderstorm. You could cut the tension with a knife.

Tears stream silently down Autumn’s face as she stands in the living room. She stands there, tears rolling down, like I just kicked her puppy.

She always did know how to cry without making a sound, letting the tears slide down until you feel guilty just for standing there. The living room feels colder, the afternoon sun glinting off the picture frames of happier times—wedding photos, vacation smiles, all a little faded now. I remember the first time I saw her cry, how it made me want to fix everything.

Now, it just makes me tired.

I rub my forehead, feeling bone-tired. Scenes like this play out almost every day. She’s always waiting for me to give in and coax her. I used to spoil her, always giving in. But now, seeing the marks all over her skin, all I feel is disgust.

My hand lingers on my brow, pressing into the ache that never seems to leave. Funny, how all that effort just feels wasted now. I remember all the times I’d buy her flowers, apologize for things I didn’t do, just to see her smile again. But now, the effort feels wasted. Her little games have worn me down to the bone, and the sight of those hickeys—proof of her carelessness—pushes me over the edge. I can’t keep playing this part.

I don’t want to comfort her anymore.

It’s like a switch has flipped. Weirdly, I feel lighter. Like I finally dropped a bag of bricks I’d been lugging around. For the first time in years, I let the silence stretch between us, refusing to fill it with empty reassurances.

Five minutes go by before Autumn finally snaps. She blinks her teary eyes and demands, “Miles Whitaker, don’t you love me anymore? Why won’t you come and make up with me? You never used to be like this!”

Her voice cracks on the last word, and I see the panic behind her anger. She’s losing her grip, and she knows it. She’s used to me caving, to me crossing the room and wrapping her in my arms no matter who started the fight. But I just stand there, arms crossed, waiting for her to realize I’m done playing along.

I can’t help it. I laugh, sharp and bitter. Then I point at her collar. “You never used to cross the line like this, either!”

My voice echoes in the quiet room—too loud, but I don’t care. I see her flinch, hand flying to her collar as if she can hide the evidence. For a moment, I almost feel sorry for her.

Almost.

And just like that, Autumn perks up. “So that’s it. You’re mad! If you’re mad, that means you still love me. If you don’t make up with me this time, I’ll forgive you.”

She says it with a little flip of her hair, as if she’s just solved a riddle. Twisted logic, but that’s her specialty. I can’t help but marvel at how she spins things to fit her narrative, always keeping herself at the center.

I just shake my head, laughing in disbelief. Her logic is truly something else.

It’s a short, humorless laugh. No humor in it. Just tired. I shake my head, wondering if she really believes her own words, or if she just likes the sound of them. Either way, I’m done playing along.

I keep my cool. “When do you want to file for divorce?”

I keep my tone measured, almost businesslike. It’s like we’re talking about the weather. I watch her face shift from surprise to anger in a heartbeat, her lips pressed into a thin line.

She stamps her foot, like a kid throwing a tantrum. “I was just saying that out of anger. The hickeys are from Ethan Grant. He got drunk and did it by accident.”

She rolls her eyes, like I’m the one being dramatic. I almost laugh at the audacity. She’s always had a way of spinning the story, making herself the victim no matter the facts.

She bats her lashes, trying to look innocent. “He’s so strong—I couldn’t push him away.”

She’s always known how to play the helpless act.

My jaw tightens. I keep my voice flat. “The county clerk’s office is closed for the day. We’ll go get divorced tomorrow.”

I check my watch. No anger left, just business. I see the realization dawn on her face—that I’m not bluffing, not this time.

She’s not smiling anymore.

Her voice is barely above a whisper. She almost sounds scared. For once. “Are you serious?”

I nod. “Dead serious.” No hesitation. No turning back.

She points at me, furious. Her eyes go wide with anger as she threatens, “Miles Whitaker, you’ll regret this!”

She jabs her finger at me, voice rising. I remember when that used to scare me. Not anymore.

I stand my ground. She storms out, heels clicking, tears streaming.

The sound of her heels echoing down the hall is almost a relief. Finally, some peace.

I almost let her go, but as she reaches the door, I call out, “Wait.”

She pauses, hand on the doorknob. Hope flickers in her eyes. She’s ready to reel me back in.

Her lips curl into a triumphant smile. She thinks she’s won. “Changed your mind already? If you get down on your knees and beg—”

I cut her off, voice flat. “Does your offer still stand? Ask Ethan Grant when he’s wiring me that two million.”

The hope drains from her face.

She slams the door so hard it rattles the frame. The whole apartment shakes.

The sound reverberates through the apartment. I just stand there, staring at the door.