Jane had said her apartment was being renovated,
so she “had no choice” but to stay in the guest room at the Ford residence for a few weeks.
Zayne didn’t even hesitate.
“The Dunn family has been our business partner for years,” he said, without looking at me. “It’s the least we can do.”
That’s how easily my opinion was erased—again.
Just like that, Jane Dunn moved into my home like she belonged there.
Within days, she’d made herself comfortable.
Silk pajamas in the living room, bare feet on the marble floors, her laughter echoing through the hallways that used to be mine.
When I tried to talk to Zayne about the household budget, she’d cut me off mid-sentence, sliding onto the couch beside him with a glass of wine.
“Zayne, I made that salmon recipe you love—want to try it later?”
He smiled.
He never smiled like that with me.
One night, passing by the study, I heard her voice through the door—low, teasing.
“Do you still remember, Zayne? You used to help me with my math homework.”
Zayne chuckled softly. “Of course I remember. You were hopeless at numbers. I practically did it for you.”
The warmth in his voice—
I’d never heard that tone from him, not once in our marriage.
I froze in the doorway. I didn’t want to hear more, but the sound of their laughter drew blood all the same.
I turned to leave, but Zayne’s voice caught me mid-step.
“Perfect timing, Wendy,” he said easily. “Jane suggested putting a swing in the garden. Come help us pick a design.”
Jane looked up with a little tilt of her head. “Oh yes, Wendy, what do you think? Or do you trust Zayne’s taste more?”
Her eyes sparkled like she already knew the answer.
I forced a small smile. “Anything’s fine. I still have my thesis to finish, so you two can decide.”
“A thesis?” Jane giggled. “Oh, I remember mine! Well—Zayne basically wrote it for me. You should let him help you too.”
Zayne looked at me, waiting, as if expecting gratitude.
But I wasn’t a project that needed saving anymore.
“No, thank you,” I said, my voice barely steady. “I can handle it.”
I turned before either of them could see the tears gathering in my eyes.
My chest felt tight, heavy, like someone pressing a hand over my heart.
That night, he came to bed late.
He smelled faintly of perfume—the same one Jane always wore.
My body stiffened as he lay down beside me. His arm slid around my waist, his lips brushed my neck, warm and practiced.
For three years, I’d learned to stay still. To let him find what he needed and leave.
But tonight, something inside me revolted. My skin crawled with a sadness that felt like nausea.
He noticed. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Maybe I ate something bad,” I whispered.
He didn’t push. Just patted my back, like a parent soothing a restless child.
Minutes later, a voice echoed from downstairs—shaky and soft.
“Zayne! The lights went out! I think someone broke into my room!”
Jane.
Zayne was out of bed before I could speak, pulling on his shirt, rushing downstairs.
Half an hour later, he came back.
Just a blown bulb.
A stray cat in the hall.
Still, he’d run to her like she was the only thing worth protecting.
And for the first time, I realized—I wasn’t jealous.
I was simply… empty.
The next morning, I rose early. Zayne was still asleep. Jane was nowhere in sight.
I felt relief for the first time in weeks.
I picked up my things to leave for the lab—until I realized I’d forgotten my bag.
My heart skipped. Inside were the signed divorce papers and my application to the Nord Research Institute.
I turned back toward the stairs—just as his voice stopped me cold.
“Wendy, did you forget something?”
He was standing in the doorway, holding my bag. The papers were in his hand.
My stomach dropped. “Those are mine…”
His eyes narrowed slightly as he flipped through the documents.
“What’s this application to Nord? You’re going abroad?”
His tone sharpened. “When did you plan to tell me?”
“It’s—it’s for a friend,” I lied, forcing a smile.
Zayne’s gaze lingered on me. “Nord, hm? You hate the cold.”
That sentence sliced through me.
Nord was where we’d spent our honeymoon. I’d told him then that I loved it—the silence, the snow, the peace.
He’d forgotten. Or maybe, he’d never cared enough to remember.
He slipped the documents back into the bag, his voice calm again, almost too calm.
“If you really want to keep doing research, the Ford Medical Center is opening a position for a chief researcher. You can start after graduation.”
The offer sounded generous.
But it was a leash.
I shook my head. “That won’t be necessary. I already have plans.”
His eyes darkened. “Plans that don’t include me?”
I didn’t answer.
Because for the first time, I realized—my plans, my life, my future—never really had.
