The first time I came home after we remarried and received another one of Xander’s “sister-friend’s” jokes… I didn't lose my mind. I didn't scream. I didn't cry. Instead, I followed her instructions. I placed a packet of condoms on the nightstand beside my and Alexander’s bed. I arranged a heart on the silk sheets with rose petals. And then, with the thoughtfulness of a concierge, I vacated the apartment for the two of them. When I walked through the door the next morning, I brushed past his sobbing “sister-friend” in the hallway. And then I was hit by the full, icy force of Alexander’s stare. 1 Alexander sat rigid on the living room sofa, a storm gathering in his dark eyes. When he finally spoke to me, his voice was soft, laced with an exhaustion he couldn't quite hide. “Maya and I genuinely don’t have that kind of relationship.” “I’ve told you countless times, our dynamic is like siblings. She just has a bizarre sense of humor and loves pushing boundaries.” When had the normally reticent Alexander, a man whose words were usually rationed like gold, become this verbose? I was busy wiping off my makeup, offering a casual, noncommittal reply. “Oh. I know.” “Snap!” The packet of condoms was thrown with force onto the coffee table, scattering a few wilted petals. “Then what is this?” His voice was low, strained. “Are you doing this just to deliberately punish me?” He buried his face in his hands, visibly struggling to maintain control. I managed a small, weary smile. You punish someone because you either love them or you hate them. I was already past both. I just didn’t want any trouble. I pulled out my phone and showed him the message Maya had sent me yesterday. “Mama’s back. Better clear out the place so I can make magic with my big boy. Don't forget the condoms and rose petals, babe, I have standards.” Alexander’s expression froze. He stammered, annoyance overriding his previous control. “And—and if she acts out, you just… follow suit? Are you humoring her?” I almost laughed out loud. Last year, when I went to pick up a drunken Alexander from a night out with Maya, I was chastised because I hadn't brought one of the cheap toys she’d requested as a gag gift. What had he said then? “Maya just likes to joke. Why can’t you just play along with her?” Now that I was actually playing along, he was upset. But, whatever. I’d promised myself: After the divorce, don't invite unhappiness back into my life. I yawned, feigning boredom, and managed to paste a fake smile onto my face. “Okay, honey, I got it. I promise I’ll remember. You should get some rest now.” Alexander didn’t move. His gaze was searching, as if trying to drill through the blank façade I’d put up. Finally, he stood, an edge of frantic anxiety in his movements as he tried to pull me into a hug. He buried his head in my neck and murmured. “Avery, please, stop joking like this, okay? I hate it. I don’t want anyone but you.” Sensing the shift to desire, I deliberately misinterpreted his words and pushed him away, firmly. “You can’t? What do you mean, you can’t? You’re so young! Go to bed and rest up, then.” Alexander’s hands, which had been fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, froze. A storm was brewing. The sound of his ringtone cut the tension. Seeing the caller ID, Alexander instantly snapped back to attention. He almost instinctively shielded the screen and walked toward the balcony. His tone was instantly soft, indulgent, and completely devoted. “I’m sorry, alright, my queen? I’m coming now to beg your forgiveness.” Before stepping out, Alexander suddenly turned back. “Take your pills.” Under his intense, unyielding gaze, I obediently shoved the handful of pills into my mouth. Sweet slumber. One deep, dreamless night. 2 I woke up at ten p.m. Alexander had climbed into bed next to me at some point, his voice thick with disappointment. “I texted you. Why didn’t you respond?” “I was sleeping too deeply. Didn’t see it. What’s up?” I casually scooted toward the edge of the bed, only to have Alexander’s arm wrap around my waist. “Nothing. Just wanted to ask: How should we celebrate our anniversary?” I answered without thinking. “Let’s go to that trendy new seafood spot. I heard their Lobster Thermidor is incredible.” A flicker of genuine pain crossed Alexander’s face. “I’m allergic to shellfish, Avery. Did you forget?” Right. He had a sensitive system. Besides shellfish, he couldn’t eat nuts or most gluten products. Because of this, for every anniversary before the last few years, I’d always prepared a massive, elaborate meal myself. But ever since his “sister-friend” came back four years ago, those meals had ended up feeding the trash bin. I stretched lazily, as if nothing was wrong, slipping free of his grip. “Then you’ll have to suck it up and watch me eat.” Alexander’s smile was bitter. His hand reached for me again, but this time only gently stroked my hair. He said, “Fine.” He was being so agreeable. It wasn’t like him at all. On our actual anniversary, the traffic was terrible. As Alexander kept rushing me via text, I scrolled through social media. Maya had posted a photo: She was helping Alexander decorate a private room. The caption: “Playing good little helper for my big boy, helping him trick his wife. Ugh, some women are so high maintenance.” The picture itself showed her sitting intimately on Alexander’s lap. Suddenly, I felt like this whole charade was pointless. I pulled over. The sunset was perfect outside the window. Across the square, a handsome, blonde-haired young man was feeding the pigeons. He noticed me looking, and held up the feed, waving enthusiastically. I was twenty minutes away from meeting Alexander, who was still texting to ask if he needed to send a car. I replied No need, turned off my phone, and walked toward the boy. I got home well past midnight. Alexander was sitting on the sofa, radiating fury. “Where were you?” I answered honestly. “Feeding pigeons.” Alexander shot to his feet. “Feeding pigeons? I booked out an entire restaurant. I waited from five o’clock until closing. And you were feeding pigeons?” “And that’s not all…” He furiously threw a stack of photos at my feet. “Does feeding pigeons require this level of intimacy?” The photos showed me laughing and wrestling playfully with the blonde young man. I just shrugged helplessly. “We were just messing around. If you insist on reading too much into it, there’s nothing I can do.” The entire scene had a bizarre, familiar quality. Two years ago, when I confronted him with photos my friend had sent me—pictures of him and Maya kissing—he had replied with the same exasperated dismissal. “It was just a dare. A stupid game. Why are you making such a big deal out of it?” It was a shock to me then that the normally reserved and dignified Alexander would play such childish, idiotic games. But that was all history now. I waved my hand, indicating I wasn’t going to bother explaining anything further. Alexander clenched his fist and slammed the gift box on the table to the floor. A cup tumbled out. It was a limited-edition handcrafted piece I’d spent months trying to track down. While Alexander stormed out to the balcony to smoke and cool off, I quickly picked up the cup to inspect it. Tsk. What a shame. A chip was gone from the rim. I was a little annoyed. So, I decided to go out and make myself happy. 3 At the high-end lounge, I sipped my drink. I began dramatically recounting the whole story of me and Alexander to the eighteen male models I’d hired for the night. Originally, I truly believed Maya was just Alexander’s “bro.” So, when she’d made sexually suggestive jokes to Alexander right in front of me, I’d just laughed along. When she’d gotten inappropriately handsy with him, I believed Alexander when he said she was just being uninhibited because she’d lived abroad for so long. But her jokes became increasingly excessive, flagrantly provocative. It escalated until Alexander’s birthday. She left her worn, intimate underwear as a “gift” and put it on my side of the bed. That was when Alexander and I had our first explosive fight. In my mind, that action severely crossed the line of friendship. It was a direct, aggressive insult. But Alexander only rubbed his temples with irritation, playing it down. “She’s always been like this, Avery. Free-spirited. What do you expect me to do?” I recognized the absolute tolerance in his tone. Tears welled in my eyes as I pleaded. “At least… you could choose not to associate with her.” Alexander, who was usually gentle and affectionate with me, immediately changed. “Avery, you’ve gone too far. You have no right to interfere with my social life!” In that moment, I understood that this so-called “sister-friend” held more weight than me, his wife of five years. He suffered severe motion sickness, yet he accompanied her to amusement parks for rides that left him violently ill. He was meticulous about his work, yet he ditched a crucial, high-stakes meeting just because she’d asked him to watch a meteor shower that might happen. I cycled through constant questioning, screaming, and even begging. All I got in return was Alexander’s growing perfunctory attitude and his increasing tendency to walk out on me. Our arguments became more frequent. I lost control of my emotions more and more often. In our most intense fight, I even grabbed a knife. My love was desperate. Even my threats were directed at myself. As I started to slip, Alexander firmly grabbed the blade with his bare hand. He let his flesh be torn and bloody rather than allow the blade to touch me. My heart softened. I repeatedly told myself, Maybe I’m the one being too paranoid. Xander loves me. I must be misunderstanding him and Maya. Another year, another Alexander birthday. The party was set for the rooftop of a downtown restaurant. Before leaving, I carefully placed a positive pregnancy test into a gift box—my ultimate surprise. I hoped this baby could repair the rift between us. Surprisingly, Maya didn’t cause any trouble before the party started. Everything seemed to be moving in a positive direction. Until I stepped into the elevator that led to the rooftop. The elevator reached the top floor, but the doors never opened. The emergency button, coincidentally, was broken. I have severe claustrophobia. The elevator cab was small, stiflingly hot, and pitch black. Within minutes, I was struggling to breathe, near total suffocation, my body slick with cold sweat. I frantically tried to call Alexander. All I heard was a busy signal. Maybe it’s too loud and he can’t hear it, I tried to reassure myself. I tried to control my breathing, my mind racing to find a way to save myself. But the next second, the elevator suddenly plunged. I screamed, shrinking into a corner in pure despair. I thought I was going to die. And in my heart, I was still regretting that I wouldn’t get to see Alexander one last time. The elevator stopped smoothly only when it reached the sub-level garage. The doors opened. I raised my head, dazed, but instantly understood everything when I saw Maya’s openly triumphant face. Alexander was standing right next to her. Seeing me drenched in sweat, his expression flickered. “That joke went too far, Maya.” Maya punched him lightly, dismissively, on the arm. “Daddy was just getting revenge for your birthday, remember? Don’t you get it?” She pointed to Alexander’s right hand, which was wrapped in a thick bandage. “Look at what this bitch did to your hand! If you don’t teach her a lesson now, she’ll think she can walk all over you.” Shaken to the core, I stumbled out of the elevator. On a monitor to the side, a recording played back every moment of my humiliating panic attack in the elevator. Alexander had known. He had allowed it. Alexander walked toward me, reaching out to steady my trembling body. I pushed him away with all my strength. Maya grumbled, annoyed. “Stop being such a drama queen. It’s pathetic.” I slapped her across the face. She screamed, turning on Alexander with a look of pure rage. “Are you going to control your crazy wife or not?” Alexander pulled me tightly into his embrace. “Enough, Avery. Let it go. Don’t think about it. Maya didn’t mean anything by it.” He didn't even suggest that Maya apologize. The miscarriage report came out the next day. The divorce papers landed on Alexander’s desk the day after. This time, no matter what he said, I only had one cold reply: “Sign them.” Three months later, tired of the endless argument, Alexander slapped the signed divorce papers onto my desk. I got what I wanted. I took another sip of my drink, pausing the story. It was strange. Those memories, which had once been so agonizing, now felt distant, like watching a stranger’s story through glass. The young male models, however, were teary-eyed, wiping their faces and loudly indignant. “That guy is the absolute worst! You’re amazing, Miss, and he didn’t deserve you.” I nodded in agreement. “He really was the worst. Now, come on, let me feel those abs.” “BANG!” The door was kicked open. Alexander walked in, his face absolutely livid.
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