Chapter 2

I unlocked my car, but Vivian hurried over, opened the driver's door first, and slid in.

"I'll drive. That way we're still going to the office together."

I stood quiet outside the window, catching the flicker of guilt in her eyes.

Guess even she knew decking out the passenger seat like that was over the top.

Vivian paused, like she was trying to think of an excuse. Not wanting to hear it, I cut her off:

"We'll be late. Just drive."

She shut her mouth and started the car.

Not even ten minutes into the drive, her phone rang—some loud electronic music blaring.

Leo's voice came through, breathless and whiny:

"Vivian, my heart's racing... We went street racing last night and now I feel dizzy. I think I'm gonna die! You gotta come... I need a doctor."

After hanging up, Vivian didn't say a word—didn't even look at me.

She pulled over immediately, reached across, and unbuckled my seatbelt.

Her voice was all business—sharp and to the point:

"My client's not feeling well. I have to go. The office isn't far—you can walk from here."

I barely closed the door before Vivian hit the gas, peeling out into traffic and leaving a cloud of exhaust behind her.

This was a tech campus—everyone drove. No one walked to work here.

A scooter came around the corner, not expecting anyone on foot, and plowed right into me.

I scraped up my forehead, palms, and knees pretty good.

The clinic nurse cleaned me up, put on some waterproof bandages, and warned:

"Take these off before showering tonight so the cuts can breathe. Keep them dry until they scab over."

On the Uber to the office, the driver had two phones going—one for navigation, the other streaming Leo live.

The comments were blowing up with people worried about his health.

"Thanks for all the love, guys! I'm doing way better now that Vivian showed up like my knight in shining armor. Having her here makes everything better."

"No, no, you guys—don't get the wrong idea ~ Vivian's just the best, she takes such good care of me."

While he babbled on, my phone pinged with two texts.

"Jonathan, my assistant said you missed the morning project meeting? Where were you? Work comes first—do I really need to spell that out?"

"I ask you to walk a few blocks and you throw a hissy fit? Seriously?"

You could practically feel the eye-rolling through the screen.

Sometimes I swear she must have a split personality. How else could she play favorites so hard?

That evening, I changed my bandages in the bathroom mirror, then dragged my sore leg back to the couch to watch TV.

The front door unlocked, and Vivian's snarky voice cut through the room:

"I thought maybe you'd finally gotten over that attitude problem, being so quiet lately. Turns out you were just saving up to cause bigger problems?"

My silence must have ticked her off, because she marched over and yanked the TV plug out.

"Jonathan, are you nuts?! This is an award-winning project—do you have any clue how much money we lose with a one-day delay?!"

I didn't move or say a word, just watched her freeze mid-rant.

She squinted at the scab on my forehead and the bandages on my elbow and knee, then frowned:

"What happened?"

I met her eyes and said flatly:

"Nothing major. Got hit by a scooter on the way to work."

Vivian blinked, then suddenly dropped the attitude and stepped closer to check my injuries.

"You got hurt and didn't even call me?"

I pulled my hand away, voice light:

"Just a scratch. I'm not dying. Besides, you were busy taking care of your client's 'health emergency' at the time."

Some care comes too late.

She could talk a big game, but every time I actually needed help, all I got was criticism.

Vivian had stopped caring if I was okay a long time ago.

After all that, if I still expected her to rush to my side, I really was an idiot.

That comment hit a nerve. Vivian shot to her feet, sneering down at me:

"Must you be so sarcastic, Jonathan? Asking you to walk a few blocks is a crime now? You're 28, not 2! You got hit by a scooter while walking—are you really gonna play the victim here? I bet you did this on purpose to get back at me!"

I stared at her meltdown, too exhausted to even roll my eyes.

What was there left to say? One sentence and I'm getting accused of intentional injury.

Too drained to fight, I tried to stand up to go to bed.

When she saw me struggling, Vivian dialed back the attitude, sighed, and moved to help.

"I'll sleep in here tonight. Just yell if you need anything."

Vivian hadn't been in our bedroom before 2 AM in months.

Because Leo needed to stream every night to build his following. He claimed late-night streams got too many trolls, and he "couldn't handle it alone" without someone watching his back.

So Vivian locked herself in the home office every single night, glued to his stream.

She'd send him virtual gifts to boost his visibility or jump on camera with him, making sure everyone knew Leo was her "priority talent."

I'd argued with her a hundred times—begged, pleaded, fought—but nothing changed.

She said it was just work. Then threatened divorce when I pushed back. My throat tightened, but I gave in.

I looked at her, not fighting the idea. But when she reached for me, I said quietly:

"Vivian, let's get divorced."