The Final Countdown to Goodbye

Twenty days left.

Charles started leaving earlier and coming home later.

The promised anniversary trip was all but forgotten.

Sometimes, I would see his friends' Instagram Stories. In the background of their parties, he was always there, standing beside a woman.

That face. I had already committed it to memory from the encrypted folder on his computer.

That day, my business partner, Maya Vega, stopped me.

"Cherry, grab the design proposal. We're heading out to sign with the new client. I hear it's a hot startup Mr. Corbett has invested in."

I nodded, my mind a million miles away.

Though we were partners, no one at our firm knew I even knew Charles, let alone that we were secretly married.

The client’s office was just downstairs from Charles's company.

I knew what it was: the new tech company Olivia had founded since returning, with funding from Blackwood Capital.

Recent financial news was full of puff pieces, hyping up their old romance to generate buzz for the project.

When we walked into the CEO's office, I saw Charles, just as I had expected.

He was standing at a whiteboard, guiding Olivia's team through the details of their project proposal.

Olivia sat in the head chair, poised and elegant as a swan.

The moment Charles saw me, his hand froze mid-stroke, leaving a long, black streak from the marker across the whiteboard.

The atmosphere in the room grew frigid.

Olivia glanced at me, a hint of amusement in her eyes. "Charles, who is this?"

Charles fell silent, clearly calculating how to answer without giving Olivia the wrong impression.

I smiled and introduced myself. "Hello, everyone. My name is Cherry Sinclair. I'm the designer for this project. Mr. Corbett and I are—"

Charles and I spoke in unison.

"We were college classmates."

As the words hung in the air, my fingers tightened on the folder in my hands until my knuckles went white.

It was not the first time I had covered for him, and it was not the first time he had erased my identity in public.

A secret marriage did not just hide our present; it sealed off any possible future.

The business meeting that followed was a disaster.

Charles reverted to his Wall Street elite persona, representing Olivia and driving a hard bargain.

"On top of this design fee, we need another ten percent reduction," he said, his voice cold.

He was pushing us to our absolute limit, shredding our profit margin.

Maya kicked me under the table, hesitated, then bit her lip and conceded. "Fine. Mr. Corbett certainly lives up to his reputation, cutting straight to our bottom line."

The man lowered his gaze, staring at the pen in his hand, unable to meet my eyes.

He was every bit as ruthless as they said. Only this time, his ruthlessness was directed at me, his legal wife.

Olivia remained silent through it all. She just smiled, a gentle curve of her lips that held no warmth.

In that smile was a hint of provocation, and beneath it, a sense of effortless superiority.

She had won. Utterly. And she had every right to be proud.

Olivia's assistant walked in holding a bouquet of lilies, their heavy fragrance instantly filling the conference room.

"Flowers for Miss Monroe, to celebrate the company's launch."

Unexpectedly, Charles, who had been so aggressive just moments before, suddenly went pale and rushed to stop her.

"Don't bring those in! Take them away, now."

"But—" The assistant was startled.

"I said take them away! Someone in here is severely allergic to lilies!" Charles’s voice was a near shout.

In that instant, the irony of the moment was a blade, piercing me straight through.

In five years of marriage, this man had forgotten our anniversary and messed up my birthday. Every reminder I ever gave him was casually brushed aside.

And yet, he had always remembered my allergy to lilies.

I had once clung to that fact for comfort.

Maybe all the other details proved he did not love me, but I clung to this one thing as proof that he cared, even just a little.

But seeing that care on display now, in this space that belonged entirely to Olivia, felt so jarringly out of place, so deeply ironic.

The project moved forward quickly.

Charles, however, felt it was too slow. He began emailing me late at night, pushing for faster progress.