Chapter 1 - The Wish Granted at Dinner
“I wish you weren’t my wife.”
His words weren’t shouted. That was what made them unforgettable.
We were sitting in one of the nicest restaurants downtown, surrounded by candlelight, soft music, and couples who looked hopelessly in love. Between us sat an unopened anniversary card, a bottle of expensive vintage red wine, and the five-year future I thought we were celebrating.
For a heartbeat, I honestly believed I had misunderstood him.
“What did you just say?”
He barely looked at me.
“You heard me.”
“I want you to say it again.”
He sighed, tapping his manicured fingers against the stem of his wine glass, looking vaguely annoyed that I was making him repeat himself.
“I said I wish you weren’t my wife.”
Five years of marriage suddenly evaporated into the quiet hum of the dining room.
I had booked the reservation two months in advance. I wore the emerald silk dress he once claimed made my eyes look radiant. I had spent hours picking out a sentimental card with handwritten promises because some foolish, stubborn part of me believed that emotional distance was just a temporary rough patch—that marriage could survive neglect if only one person kept trying hard enough.
“Is this some kind of sick joke, Gregory?” I whispered.
“No.”
“Then explain.”
Gregory leaned back, slowly swirling the dark liquid in his glass.
“I’m exhausted, Naomi. I’m tired of pretending we’re happy. I’m tired of playing the part of the devoted suburban husband.”
“I thought we were happy.”
“That’s because you never notice anything unless it’s right in front of you.”
The sentence sounded smooth and rehearsed, like a speech he had practiced in the rear-view mirror on the drive over.
Then his phone buzzed against the white linen.
His eyes darted downward before he quickly flipped it over.
Even in that split second, I caught the name lighting up the lock screen.
Simone.
A second notification chimed immediately after.
Then a third.
“Who’s Simone?” I asked, my voice deadly still.
“No one. Just work.”
That answer told me everything I needed to know.
He shoved the phone into his jacket pocket.
“Can we not do this here?”
“You just told me on our fifth anniversary that you regret marrying me,” I replied, looking him dead in the eye. “I think this is exactly the place.”
Gregory rubbed his temples with a dramatic sigh.
“Fine. You want the harsh truth? You’re boring, Naomi.”
The restaurant kept moving around us. Across the room, a waiter set down a birthday cake with a glowing sparkler. Laughter drifted from a booth nearby. The world refused to stop simply because my marriage had just been executed in public.
“Boring?” I repeated.
Four years ago, I had downscaled my thriving freelance brand-design agency because he claimed my irregular schedule caused him stress and that we needed “routine stability.” I had agreed to relocate three hundred miles away from my family and friends when he landed a regional vice-president role. I had spent half a decade organizing his wardrobe, hosting his corporate dinner parties, editing his keynote presentations, and dimming my own light so he could shine brighter.
And now, the quiet life he demanded had become my crime.
“I need the restroom,” he muttered, pushing back his chair and standing up.
Before he could take a step, I looked up at him.
“Leave your phone.”
His expression hardened.
“Excuse me?”
“Leave the phone on the table, Gregory. If she’s just work, you have nothing to hide.”
He glared at me, his jaw clenching. After a tense five-second standoff, he tossed the phone onto the linen tablecloth with a contemptuous sneer.
“Whatever. Knock yourself out.”
He walked away toward the corridor, convinced he was leaving me crushed, weeping, and desperate.
The moment he rounded the corner, I picked up his phone.
No passcode.
Six months ago, Gregory had dramatically announced he was removing his security pin, declaring that “true partners shouldn't keep digital secrets.” At the time, I had touched his cheek and thought it was a gesture of absolute transparency.
Now I realized it wasn't trust. It was pure, unadulterated carelessness.
I opened his messaging app.
Simone’s chat was pinned to the top.
Hundreds of messages.
Photos. Hotel confirmations. Flight itineraries to Miami and Aspen. Receipts for diamond earrings and designer bags charged to our joint accounts under vague business expense tags.
“Can’t wait until you finally tell her tonight,” one message from Simone read, sent only forty minutes earlier. “I hate sharing you with a ghost.”
Gregory’s reply: “Don’t worry, babe. Tonight she finds out it’s over. The house and the bonus are ours.”
My breath caught, but tears didn't come.
Instead, a strange, crystalline calm settled over my nerves.
I took out my own phone. In less than three minutes, I used a cloud scanner app to photograph every single incriminating thread, receipt, and voice note, backing them up to three separate encrypted drives and forwarding the entire dossier directly to my personal attorney.
When I finished, I placed his phone back down in the exact spot he had left it.
I pulled out my wallet, placed enough cash on the table to cover my half of the dinner and a generous tip for the server, and picked up my clutch.
When Gregory returned from the restroom, buttoning his jacket and wearing an expression of smug superiority, he expected to find a sobbing woman begging for a second chance.
Instead, I was already standing.
“Naomi?” he said, blinking in confusion.
“You said you wish I wasn’t your wife,” I said calmly.
“Look, we can talk about this in the car—”
May you like
“No need,” I smiled, looking at him with the detached indifference one reserves for a stranger on a train. “Consider your wish granted.”
I turned on my heel and walked out into the cool evening air.
