The dining table was set for two—crystal glasses, a candle trembling like a shy confession, and the meal she had practiced for weeks. Keith loved seafood pasta. At least, she thought he did. Most of what she knew about her husband came from observation, not conversation.
Their marriage had never been loud.
It was quiet. Polite. Cold.
But tonight was their first anniversary, and Jasmine had foolishly believed that one year together meant something.
She checked the clock again.
9:47 p.m.
He was late.
Her phone lay beside the plate, silent as always. No message. No call. Just the soft hum of the apartment and the ridiculous sound of her hopeful heart.
"Maybe traffic," she whispered to herself.
Maybe work.
Maybe life.
She practiced her smile in the reflection of the wineglass. She had even bought a new dress—soft cream silk that made her look gentler than she felt. She wanted him to look at her and think, I married the right woman.
Footsteps finally echoed outside the door.
Jasmine's heart jumped.
She stood, smoothing her dress, rehearsing the words in her head.
Happy anniversary, Keith.
I'm glad we made it this far.
Let's try harder this year.
The door opened.
"Keith—"
The rest of her sentence died.
Because he wasn't alone.
A woman walked in beside him—tall, elegant, wrapped in a red coat that screamed confidence and money. Her perfume entered before she did, sharp and expensive.
Keith paused when he saw the candles.
His gaze moved from the table to Jasmine's face.
For a second—just one fragile second—she thought he might soften.
He didn't.
"What is all this?" he asked.
"It's… our anniversary," Jasmine said quietly. "I cooked."
The woman beside him smiled, not kindly.
"Oh. I didn't know you had plans, Keith."
Keith loosened his tie, looking irritated rather than touched.
"Lena had nowhere to go tonight."
The name fell like a stone into Jasmine's chest.
Lena Moore.
The woman from his past.
The woman he had once loved before the arranged marriage chained him to Jasmine.
"I'll just set another plate," Jasmine murmured, moving toward the kitchen.
"You don't need to."
Keith's voice was flat.
"We won't stay long."
Her hands trembled over the drawer.
Won't stay long.
On their anniversary.
She forced a smile anyway. "At least taste the food. I made it the way you like—"
"Jasmine."
He said her name the way people apologized before hurting you.
Lena walked around the apartment like she already owned it, touching the curtains, glancing at the photos Jasmine had carefully arranged—photos that never included Keith because he hated taking pictures with her.
"This place is cute," Lena said lightly. "Very… homely."
Jasmine felt small inside her own life.
Keith finally looked at the table again—the candles, the effort, the silent hope.
His jaw tightened.
"We need to talk."
Those four words.
Every woman knows them.
Every woman fears them.
Jasmine nodded. "Okay. Let me just—"
"I never loved you."
The room went quiet.
So quiet she could hear the wax melting.
Keith didn't look cruel when he said it.
He looked tired.
"This marriage was a business deal between our families. You knew that."
She had known.
But she had also hoped.
"Keith, I—"
"I tried to make it work," he continued. "But pretending is exhausting."
Lena watched them with soft, victorious eyes.
Jasmine felt something crack inside her chest—thin, sharp lines spreading through the girl she used to be.
"So what are you saying?" she whispered.
Keith exhaled.
"I want a divorce."
The word echoed against the candles, the food, the stupid anniversary she had built in her head.
Divorce.
She touched the back of the chair to steady herself.
"Is it because of her?" Jasmine asked.
Lena didn't even bother denying it.
Keith was silent for a long time.
"That's part of it."
Honesty without mercy.
Jasmine nodded slowly, like a child trying to understand an adult lie.
"I see."
She untied the apron she was still wearing.
"I'll pack my things."
Keith frowned as if he hadn't expected surrender so quickly.
"You don't need to leave tonight."
"It's fine."
Her voice sounded far away, even to herself.
"This was never my home anyway."
She packed in under an hour.
Not because she had little to take, but because she had little she wanted to keep.
Clothes.
A few books.
The necklace her mother gave her.
When she walked out of the bedroom, Keith was waiting alone. Lena was already gone.
He looked at the suitcase, then at her face.
"You don't have to disappear," he said.
Jasmine smiled—a small, broken thing.
"That's exactly what unwanted people do, Keith."
His eyes flickered.
For the first time, he looked uncertain.
"Take care of yourself," he said quietly.
She nodded.
"You too."
At the door, she stopped.
Not to beg.
Not to cry.
Just to memorize the man she had wasted her heart on.
"Happy anniversary," she whispered.
Then she left.
Two weeks later, Jasmine would sit in a small clinic, staring at a test result with shaking hands.
Positive.
A new life.
From a finished love.
She placed her palm over her stomach and made a promise.
He may have abandoned me…
But I will never abandon you.