The scent of wax and roses hung heavy in the air, a cloying perfume meant to signal devotion. 6 months ago, this room—a cathedral of flickering candlelight, every surface adorned with petals and soft light—would have stolen the breath from Emma's lungs. She would have felt her heart swell, her eyes prickle with tears of pure, unadulterated joy. She would have believed, utterly and completely, in the fairytale.
Now, the sight just made her tired.
Her fingers trailed through the warm wax pooling in a crystal holder. *He must have spent hours,* a detached part of her mind noted. *All a lie. A beautiful, meticulously constructed lie.*
She had played her part perfectly. When his text had buzzed through earlier—*"Baby, I'm so sorry. Crisis at the office. I'm going to be late. Raincheck on dinner? I'll make it up to you, I promise."*—she had typed her reply without a single tremor of hesitation.
*"Don't worry about it, Neo. I understand. Work comes first. See you when you get home. x"*
The old Emma, the one who had died a little inside in this very room six months from now, would have meant it. She would have sighed, put the covered dish of his favorite pasta into the fridge, and spent the evening worrying if he was overworking, if he'd eaten.
The new Emma simply put her phone down, ordered herself a ridiculously expensive sushi platter for one, and waited for the performance to begin.
Now, the stage was set. The leading man was just… late.
A cold, familiar hollowness expanded in her chest. It wasn't heartbreak. That ship had sailed, sunk, and rusted at the bottom of the ocean. This was anticipation. The grim, steady patience of a hunter waiting for the trap to spring.
She didn't have to wait long.
Her phone, face-up on the coffee table, lit up the dim room. Not a call. Not a text.
A notification.
A series of them. *Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzt.*
Instagram DMs. From Sarah, a mutual friend whose idea of friendship was gossip served with a side of faux concern.
The world narrowed to the bright screen. The candlelight seemed to warp, the shadows stretching into long, accusatory fingers. This was it. The moment her first life had ended.
With a calm that felt alien, she picked up the phone. Her thumbprint unlocked it. The messages glowed, each word a hammer strike on the coffin of her old marriage.
*Sarah: Emma… oh my god.*
*Sarah: I don't even know how to say this.*
*Sarah: [Image]*
*Sarah: I saw this and I thought you should know. I'm so sorry.*
Emma didn't need to open the image. The thumbnail was enough. Neo, his arm slung around a blonde woman at a bar she didn't recognize, his face buried in her neck. He was wearing the same grey suit he'd left the house in this morning. The one he'd said was for his "big client meeting."
A sound escaped her, a dry, brittle thing that was neither a laugh nor a sob. It was the sound of finality.
The memory crashed over her then, not as a painful wave, but as a cold, clinical documentary she'd already seen.
*Neo, stumbling through this same candlelit room hours later, his eyes red-rimmed, not from tears but from whiskey. The stench of cheap perfume clinging to his jacket, mingling with the scent of his betrayal and the vanilla candles.*
*"Emma… baby, please… it didn't mean anything…"*
*Her, sobbing, hugging herself on the floor, the beautiful anniversary scene now a mockery. "How could you? On today of all days?"*
*His face had hardened then. The remorse evaporated, replaced by a defensive, ugly anger. "What was I supposed to do, Emma? Huh? You're always busy! You're always tired! You never have time for me! I have needs! It's your fault! If you just… if you paid attention to me, I never would have had to look elsewhere!"*
His words had been a masterclass in deflection, each blade expertly twisted to make his sin her cross to bear. And the old Emma, with her self-esteem already in shreds, had absorbed it. She had believed him. She had spent the next 1 months trying to be better, trying to be more, trying to win back the man who had shattered her.
She had apologized *to him*.
The memory snapped back into its box. Emma placed the phone back on the table, screen down. She took a deep breath, the scented air now feeling toxic. She walked to the window and pushed it open, letting the cold, clean night air rush in, scattering the petals on the sill and making the candle flames dance wildly.
The headlights of his car swept into the driveway.
A slow, cold smile touched Emma's lips. It didn't reach her eyes.
He was home.
This time, there would be no tears. No hysterics. No pleas for an explanation he was incapable of giving.
This time, she would not forgive him.
The key turned in the lock. The door swung open, revealing Leo, looking contrite and holding a last-minute bouquet of gas station flowers.
"Baby, I am so, so sorry," he began, his voice already layering on the practiced remorse. "The meeting just ran forever, and then the guys wanted to go for a drink to unwind, and I lost track of…"
His words died in his throat as he finally took in the scene. The extravagant decorations. The untouched, perfect romantic setup. And Emma, standing by the window, silhouetted against the night, her face an unreadable mask of perfect calm.
She turned to him. Her voice, when she spoke, was quiet, steady, and colder than the night air.
"How was the *office*, Neo?"