On Our Anniversary, He Lit Fireworks for His First Love

The next second, his tone softened abruptly. He reached out to touch my face, but I turned away before his fingers could land.

His hand froze in midair, then withdrew awkwardly.

"Babe, come on. Don't be like this."

There it was again—that practiced tenderness, his voice dropping to a low, magnetic murmur laced with coaxing warmth.

"I know tonight was unfair to you. But Summer really has had it rough. Her father was injured saving me years ago. The Delgado family owes her. I only think of her as a little sister."

"Besides, I got you a gift."

He pulled a velvet box from his pocket and opened it.

A pink diamond ring. Five carats, at least.

"I won this at an auction not long ago. It's called The Eternal Heart. I was planning to put it on your finger after the fireworks."

He took my hand and began to slide it toward my ring finger.

This was how it always went after a fight.

A slap, then a sweet.

All he had to do was lower his head a little, offer some trinket, whisper a few soft words, and I'd cave.

Because I loved him.

I'd loved him for seven whole years—from college to the wedding aisle.

I couldn't bear to let go.

But this time, staring at that glittering diamond, all I felt was a sharp, blinding sting.

"Oscar."

I didn't pull my hand away. I just looked at him, perfectly still. "Did Summer try this ring on?"

Oscar's hand gave a violent tremor.

That split second of hesitation was all the answer I needed.

Something twisted inside my chest—a blade carving straight through, until the pain went numb.

I laughed. Laughed until my eyes burned with tears threatening to spill.

"So she did."

"Let me guess—she probably said something like, 'Dora's fingers are so slender. This ring would be way too loose on me.' Am I close?"

Oscar's expression turned ugly. "Don't be snide. She was curious. She picked it up to look at it. She never even put it on."

"Is that so?"

I yanked my hand free. "Well, since someone else has already touched it, I don't want it."

"Oscar, let's get a divorce."

It was the first time I'd ever said those words.

In this marriage, I had always been the one who endured, who accommodated, who behaved. I told myself that if I was good enough, if I loved him hard enough, he'd eventually come around.

But I was wrong.

A man like that never turns back. He just finds your bottom line and grinds it to dust beneath his heel.

Oscar clearly hadn't expected those words to leave my mouth.

He stared, stunned—then his expression shifted, as if he'd just heard a joke.

"Dora, it's New Year's Eve. That's not funny."

His fingers caught my chin, forcing my face up to meet his gaze. His eyes held a mixture of contempt and absolute certainty.

"Divorce? Without me, who's going to fund your heritage projects? Who's going to bankroll your lofty artistic dreams? And your mother—the one in the care facility—who's going to cover her medical bills?"

"Dora. Be good."

He pressed his lips to mine—hard, punishing.

"Let's go home tonight. I'll make dumplings for you. You love my three-delicacy filling, remember?"

"Stop saying things you don't mean. I don't want to hear it."

Before I could respond, he guided me into the passenger seat and locked the door.

The engine hummed to life, and the car pulled toward our penthouse in the city center.

Outside the window, fireworks still crackled in scattered bursts.

I stared at my own pale reflection in the glass and pressed a hand to my flat stomach.

Baby, I'm sorry.

Mommy might not be able to give you a home after all.

Back at the house, Oscar actually started making dumplings.

He shrugged off his suit jacket, rolled his dress shirt to the elbows—revealing taut, muscular forearms—and set to work kneading dough and mincing filling with practiced ease.