Three Days Until You Lose Me Chapter 1

My husband is the manager for the country’s biggest pop girl group, but I can never get him to return my calls.

Every time he went on tour, he told me the artists were on a strict lockdown and that handing over his phone to the label was standard procedure.

I believed him. For four whole years.

Until his ex, Cassie, posted those intimate behind-the-scenes photos.

Thirty-three times they were caught in the same frame in a single month. The shortest interaction was twenty minutes of them practically glued to each other.

The photos were so sharp I could see the wedding band on his ring finger—the one he claimed he had to take off because it "interfered with work."

I pulled up our chat history.

The longest gap between messages took him nineteen days to reply.

Two words: "Busy now."

Later, another two words: "Up to you."

After that, nothing but a single period.

And eventually, not even the period.

He came home reeking of her perfume, frowning as he asked, "Why haven't you been checking up on me lately?"

I just smiled.

He didn't even know that in three days, our divorce hearing would finally bring the curtain down.

* * *

The porch light had been broken for two weeks.

When Jacob walked in, the scent of his perfume preceded him—the warm, spicy rosewood notes that Cassie always wore.

"Why haven't you been checking up on me lately?"

He looked down at me, brow furrowed, like a detective grilling an incompetent suspect.

During our first year of marriage, if he was even ten minutes late, he’d send me his live location. Once, during a torrential downpour, the signal in the parking garage cut out. He ran all the way to a convenience store in the freezing rain just to FaceTime me so I wouldn't worry.

I used to tease him for being dramatic.

Now, sitting at the dining table, looking at the faint smudge of pink lipstick on his collar, that rainy night felt like a lifetime ago.

"I'm tired," I said, sliding the bowl of oat meal toward him.

He didn't touch it. He was already staring down at his phone.

When the screen lit up, Cassie’s profile picture popped up.

"Cassie: My ankle is still throbbing. Can you pick me up early tomorrow morning?"

Jacob didn't bother hiding the screen from me. His thumbs flew across the keyboard.

"Jacob: Yeah. Don't walk around."

On the stove, the oat meal was still simmering on low heat.

Three years ago, when he suffered a severe stomach bleed, I quit my job. I studied under a nutritionist, waking up at four in the morning just to slow-cook his meals. The doctor had warned me that talent managers live under high stress and need careful looking after.

I looked after him for four years. I looked after him so well that he remembered Cassie's ankle pain, but forgot that I had gotten three stitches at the clinic just last month.

"Tomorrow is Mom’s birthday. We’re going to the house in Connecticut tomorrow night," Jacob said, slipping his phone into his pocket. His tone was cold, like a boss giving an assistant a memo.

"I'm not going."

My fork clinked against the edge of the plate.

He looked up, impatience flickering in his eyes.

"Fay, don't start."

"I can explain those photos Cassie posted. They're on tour right now. She’s the leader of the group, and it's all just promotion."

"Promotion requires her head resting on your shoulder?"

The room fell dead silent.

Jacob’s face hardened.

"Since when did you become so bitter?"

Those words cut deeper than any photo.

He used to tell me my voice was so soft that even when I was angry, it sounded like I was flirting.

Then I learned to stop crying and stop throwing tantrums, and now he called me bitter.

The doorbell rang.

He walked over to open it.

A courier stood there, holding a sleek silver gift box.

Jacob opened it. Inside was a delicate pearl necklace.

A small card slipped out. I caught the elegant script before he could hide it.

"To Cassie. Have a wonderful show."

"Signed, Jacob."

Yesterday was my birthday.

Yesterday, I had sent him three text messages.

The first asked if he was coming home for dinner.

The second told him the cake was going to melt.

The third, sent at 1:00 AM, told him my stomach was cramping and asked if he could bring home some medicine.

He replied six hours later.

With a single period.

Jacob covered the card with his hand, as if suddenly remembering I was in the room.

"It's from a brand sponsor," he said quickly. "I'm just passing it along."

"That's nice."

I stood up, scraping the cold oat meal into the trash.

He watched me, his scowl deepening.

"Are you really not going to let me eat in peace now?"

"You weren't going to eat it anyway."

"Fay!" his voice cracked through the kitchen. "What do you actually want from me?"

My phone buzzed on the counter.

A message from my lawyer, Simon.

"Fay, the hearing is scheduled for the day after tomorrow at 9:00 AM. Please make sure you have all your documents ready."

I locked the screen and looked up at Jacob.

"I'm going to bed."

Jacob stood in the shadow of the hallway, clutching the card meant for Cassie, his knuckles turning white.