You Chose Her, Remember?

That night, they headed out to see a Broadway show. Sophie made sure I knew it.

"Daniel says he's got a surprise for me—maybe he's proposing?"

Daniel ruffled her hair like she was something precious. "You'll find out soon."

As soon as the door clicked shut, I bolted for the study.

My dad's stuff was still in a messy pile. I picked through it carefully—his last traces, dumped like junk.

A photo album slipped out.

Our wedding album.

In every shot, I was all smiles. But Daniel? Not once did he look at me. His eyes were always focused somewhere just outside the frame. Now I got it—he'd been staring at Sophie, the version burned into his memory.

I flipped to the last page. Tucked inside was an old photo of a younger Sophie, glowing like she belonged in a perfume ad.

On the back, Daniel's handwriting: [Waiting for you to come back.]

So I'd been standing in for her since day one.

I shut the album and spotted something on the desk—an Equity Transfer Agreement.

Thirty percent of the company. Going to Sophie. The signing date? Tomorrow.

My hands shook as I read. The deeper I went, the colder I got. Some of those shares were backed by my dad's money. Daniel once called it our venture.

Now it was about to become his and Sophie's.

My phone buzzed. Unknown number.

"Is this Ms. Emily Egerton? This is NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital. We've found some irregularities in your father's medical records—"

I didn't even finish the call. The front door creaked open. They were back.

"You're still up?" Daniel frowned at the lit room.

"I'm going to bed now." I grabbed my dad's things fast.

Sophie clung to his arm, glowing. "Daniel was so sweet tonight. He booked the whole theater just for us. Oh, and Emily—tomorrow's my birthday. Be ready."

Tomorrow. March 15th.

I froze.

That was my birthday too.

"What? Something wrong?" Daniel's voice turned sharp.

"No." I dropped my head. 'Just one more day. If I can get through tomorrow...'

"What do you need me to do?"

"A birthday party, duh." Sophie grinned. "Daniel's friends are coming. You just need to handle the food. For eighty."

Eighty people. She wanted me to cater her party—on my own birthday.

That night, I laid in the cold guest bed, staring at the calendar on my phone.

Three years of marriage, and Daniel had never remembered my birthday.

Now I knew the truth.

He didn't forget.

It just wasn't mine to begin with.

***

Sophie's screech yanked me out of sleep.

"Emily! You're still in bed? Is the food ready?!"

I blinked at the time—6 a.m.

Dragging myself up, I stumbled to the kitchen. Counters were buried under ingredients. Cooking for eighty people, solo?

They were gonna kill me with a spatula.

"Hurry up." Sophie strolled in wearing silk La Perla like she was royalty. "Daniel's guests'll be here soon."

I tied on an apron and got moving—chopping, roasting, mixing. Total chaos.

"This cake's boring." She sauntered over. "Do it again."

I looked at the fresh cake I'd just made, bit my tongue, and started over.

"This salad's gross."

"This plating's ugly."

"Use the Christofle utensils—these are too cheap."

She nitpicked like she was running a five-star hotel. I kept working like the unpaid staff.

By 2 p.m., guests started showing up—Daniel's Wall Street crew. I recognized a bunch of them.

"Emily?" Mark, Daniel's old Harvard buddy, spotted me. "What're you doing in the kitchen?"

I opened my mouth, but Sophie jumped in first.

"You've got it wrong, Mark." She smiled sweetly. "I'm Daniel's fiancée. She's just the help."

Mark blinked, confused, looking between us.

"But—"

"She's right," Daniel said, sliding an arm around Sophie's waist like it was nothing. "Mark, meet Sophie Montrose—my fiancée."

Mark's eyes locked on mine, full of disbelief.

I dropped my gaze and turned back to the food.

"Emily, bring out the champagne," Daniel called.

I set down the knife and headed to the wine cellar. The Dom Pérignon 1996 weighed a ton. My arms ached as I carried it out.

"Careful!" Sophie shrieked. "That's Daniel's favorite vintage! You can't afford to drop it!"

Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was her voice.

Either way, my foot slipped.

The bottle crashed to the floor.

Champagne exploded across the tile, golden bubbles catching the chandelier light as the room filled with the scent of $500-per-glass humiliation.