The elegant dining room, typically a space of quiet warmth, felt like a mausoleum. The steak, once perfectly seared, lay cold and congealed on the plate, mirroring the chill that had settled deep within my chest. On the polished mahogany table, my phone glowed, a stark blue light illuminating the words "Ryan Frost Spending Millions to Please His Wife." Every letter, every curve of the font, seemed to mock me, a cruel testament to a lie I had just witnessed.

It was two in the morning when the familiar black Maybach finally glided into the courtyard. Through the French window, I watched his tall figure emerge, a tailored dark blue suit accentuating his elegant, distant presence. He looked every bit the successful CEO, a man who commanded attention and respect.

"How come you're still up?" Ryan's voice was a low murmur as he flicked on the lights, his surprise evident as he found me sitting amidst the ruins of our untouched anniversary dinner. My legs, numb from hours of stillness, barely allowed me to shift. "I was waiting for you," I replied, my voice a whisper, betraying none of the turmoil raging within.