Chapter 1: The Night I Disappeared

My husband, Carter Langley, has fallen for someone else. Of course he has. Of course. The words taste bitter in my mouth, sharp as the first sip of black coffee on a sleepless morning.

It sits heavy on my chest, you know? Like the thick, humid air of a Chicago summer that just won’t break. It’s the kind of truth that creeps in quietly, settling into your bones until you can’t remember a time when you didn’t know it was there.

He has another place—another life—somewhere else. Not here.

Sometimes, late at night, I imagine him laughing in a kitchen that isn’t ours, setting his keys down on a counter that never knew my touch. Not mine. Never mine. I wonder if he keeps his shoes by her door, if his coat hangs beside hers in the hallway. The thought aches in a way I don’t have words for.

He’ll carry her purse, pull her close when she’s upset, introduce her to his friends and family. He’ll brush her hair from her face, open the car door, whisper in her ear at crowded parties. Things he never does for me anymore.

I can picture him—Carter, always the gentleman—slipping her bag over his shoulder at a party, or wrapping his arm around her waist when she’s had too much wine and needs steadying. He’ll laugh with her friends, charm her parents, make her feel like she’s the only woman in the room. Like he used to do for me...

But me? The girl he used to love? Now he can’t even stand the sight of me.

There’s a chill in the way he looks through me, like I’m not even there. I remember when his gaze used to linger, warm and searching. Now, it slides past me. Colder than January on Lake Michigan. And just as empty.

After my miscarriage, he once held me and said I wasn’t worth it. Not anymore.

His arms were stiff around me, the kind of embrace that feels more like restraint than comfort. His words landed sharper than the winter wind. Sharper than the wind. Right through me.

I tilted my head, blinked, and pretended not to care. Pretended. That’s all I could do.

I bit the inside of my cheek, forced a smile, and tried to make myself smaller. The only sound in the room was the ticking of the clock, each second stretching out, unforgiving. I counted them. I always do.

But he said, “Lillian, you brought this on yourself.” My breath caught in my throat. I felt the words punch through me.

He didn’t even look at me when he said it. His voice was flat, almost bored, like I was a problem he’d already crossed off his list.

This is the fourth year of my marriage to Carter Langley. Everyone knows our marriage is only for show. Only for show. That’s all it ever was.

There’s a certain kind of hush that follows me into every room—a silence that tastes like pity. People whisper. They always do. Our marriage is the kind people talk about at dinner parties, the kind you read about in the society pages and shake your head over. Four years of pretending. Four years of empty promises.

They know Carter’s got another place. Everybody knows.

It’s not a secret, not really. People talk. In this city, news travels faster than the L at rush hour.

He doesn’t even try to hide her anymore. She’s at every party, every fundraiser, every holiday dinner.

He doesn’t even bother to hide it anymore. I see the way people look at her—at them. I know what they’re thinking.

I used to be part of that circle. Not anymore.

There was a time when I was the one pouring wine, laughing at inside jokes, weaving my way through that crowd like I belonged. Now, my invitations get lost in the mail. My seat at the table is gone. Gone for good.

Carter’s friends call Savannah “sis-in-law.” Like it’s always been that way.

They say it with easy affection, like she’s always been part of the family. Sometimes I think they’ve forgotten me. Like I never existed.

Word gets around. Carter’s parents adore her.

Word gets around. Mrs. Langley brags about Savannah’s charm. She boasts about her taste, the way she lights up a room. Mr. Langley beams when she walks in, proud as if she were his own daughter.

On her first visit, Carter’s parents gave her the family’s heirloom pearl bracelet. The one Mrs. Langley wore on special occasions. I watched from the edge of the room. Invisible.

And me? I’m only Carter Langley’s wife on paper, and only on paper. Only on paper.

Just a name. That’s all.

No love, no children.

The house is quiet. Too quiet. Sometimes I catch myself listening for the sound of little feet, for laughter echoing down the hall. But there’s only silence. Always silence.

Just playing the part. Day after day.

I play my part. I show up when I’m expected, smile for the cameras, nod at the right moments. But inside, I’m empty. Running on fumes. Empty.

When the clock struck midnight, I blew out the candle on the marble dining table and whispered:

“Happy anniversary, Carter.”

The words hung in the air, barely more than a whisper. The candle flickered out, leaving me in the soft glow of the city lights outside the window. Alone, as always.

Then I jumped. I jumped from the thirtieth floor of our luxury apartment in downtown Chicago.

The city stretched out beneath me, glittering and indifferent. For a moment, I felt weightless. Suspended. The world seemed to slow, each heartbeat echoing in my ears.

As I leapt, I closed my eyes, feeling an indescribable sense of relief. Finally.

It was like exhaling after holding my breath for years. The pain, the loneliness, the ache—they all faded, replaced by a strange, peaceful clarity. I let go.

The wind howled past my ears. Then, with a heavy thud, I hit the ground hard. I barely felt it. Just the sound—my body hitting concrete.

My body bounced, then fell again. Everything blurred. Was this what freedom felt like?

Everything blurred. The ground rushed up to meet me a second time. And then—numbness.

Bright red blood pooled everywhere, and my whole body hurt like I’d been hit by a freight train. Everything hurt.

There was a metallic tang in the air, sharp and overwhelming. My limbs twisted at odd angles, pain radiating from every nerve ending. I couldn’t tell where I ended and the pavement began.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t even try.

I tried to lift my hand, to reach for something—anything—but nothing happened. Nothing.

Only my throat still made a hoarse, ragged sound. That’s all I had left.

A raw, guttural noise escaped me, desperate and animal. It was the sound of a life ending.

Life was slipping away at lightning speed, yet I couldn’t help but wonder—would Carter regret it when he saw I was dead? Would he even care?

Would he pause, even for a moment? Would he feel a flicker of guilt, of loss? Or would he just sigh, relieved to be free? Probably not.

Would he still sleep easy with Savannah?

Maybe this would haunt him. Maybe not. I pictured them together, laughing in that other life, and wondered if he’d even notice I was gone.

A little after five, Carter rushed back.

The doorman saw him first, all hurried steps and frantic energy. Carter’s tie was crooked, his hair wild from the wind, eyes searching for something he couldn’t name. He looked lost.

His hair was a mess, windblown and wild.

He ran a hand through it, frustrated, making it even worse. Almost vulnerable. Just for a second.

The chill of the night air clung to his jacket. He habitually took out a pack of cigarettes, his brows drawn together.

He tapped the pack against his palm, hesitated, then shoved it back in his pocket. His jaw was set, tension in every line of his body. He was barely holding it together.

My phone kept vibrating on the marble table, buzzing, then quiet again.

It was relentless, the insistent hum echoing in the empty apartment. Each time it stopped, the silence felt heavier. Like a weight.

He was losing patience. Fast.

He paced the length of the living room, muttering under his breath. The city lights blinked outside, indifferent to the drama unfolding inside. No one cared.

Downstairs, Carter irritably ran a hand through his hair, his fingers swiping the screen, impatient.

He scrolled through my messages, searching for a clue, anything to tell him where I was.

“Lillian, what are you up to now? Come down in five, okay?”

His voice was sharp, clipped. The words echoed in the stairwell, bouncing off marble and glass.

The phone screen lit up, then went dark again, resting, silent, on the table.

It glowed for a moment, casting a pale blue light across the polished surface, then faded to black. Just like me.

I wouldn’t reply anymore. Nothing left.

It was over.

“If you’re not coming back, then don’t. Ever.”

The threat hung in the air, brittle and final. The kind of ultimatum you can’t take back. He meant it.

Never coming back.

The words echoed, final and absolute. A door slamming shut, a chapter ending for good.