Three Days Until You Lose Me

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. 1. 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. 2. Only the bedside lamp lit the bedroom. When Jacob came out of the shower, he noticed the closet was half empty. "Why are you packing your clothes?" A towel hung over his shoulders, water droplets tracing the line of his collarbone. I used to chase him with a hairdryer on nights like this. He would complain about the noise but pull me into his chest anyway, laughing and saying, "Fay, I married you so someone would finally keep me in line." Now, the hairdryer sat in its drawer, its cord neatly wrapped. I folded the last sweater into my suitcase. "Just changing out the seasonal clothes. Taking them to the dry cleaners." "The housekeeper can handle that." "She won't be coming back next month." Jacob blinked, caught off guard. "You fired her?" "Yes." I was the one who hired her. I paid her salary. He had never known. Over the last four years, he simply took for granted that the house was always clean, his shirts pressed, his stomach medicine stocked, his dinners warm. As if these things grew naturally out of the walls. "You've been acting strange lately." Jacob stepped closer, reaching for the document envelope sitting on top of my suitcase. I slapped my hand over it. "Don't touch that." His gaze fell to the back of my hand. There was a faint pink scar, left over from a kitchen accident last month. The night it happened, Cassie had been chased by a stalker, and Jacob left me alone in the ER lobby. Before he bolted, he only said, "If anything happens to her, the whole group is ruined." The local anesthetic hadn't fully kicked in when they stitched me up. The nurse had asked where my husband was. I told her he was busy. Busy carrying his ex-girlfriend into a production van. "What's in there?" Jacob's voice dropped. "My personal things." "Since when do we have separate things?" The irony was almost suffocating. During our second year of marriage, Cassie returned to the country and signed with Jacob’s agency. The very first day, he came home and told me: "Work is work. Don't interfere." From then on, his schedules, his calls, his dinners, his social media—everything became a boundary I was forbidden to cross. He had drawn the line between us clearly enough. But now that I was leaving, he wanted to talk about being partners. His phone rang. It was his mother. He picked up and put it on speaker. "Jacob, sweetie, did you tell Fay yet? Tell her to get here early tomorrow." My mother-in-law's voice was bright with forced cheer. "Cassie is coming too. She's so famous now, having her over for dinner really makes your father look good in front of the neighbors." Jacob glanced at me. "She says she's not coming." There was a sharp pause on the line. "Not coming? She's a housewife, what could she possibly be busy with?" I leaned down to slide my passport and ID into my bag. "Is she throwing another tantrum over Cassie?" Diane sighed. "Fay, you need to grow up. A man in Jacob's position has to play the part sometimes. It's just business." "Diane," I spoke up. Jacob’s eyes locked onto me. "I have plans tomorrow." "What plans could possibly be more important than your father-in-law's birthday?" "Paperwork." My mother-in-law let out a dry, dismissive laugh. "Stop letting those internet blogs poison your mind. Jacob marrying you was the best thing that ever happened to you. Don't ruin your own luck." "Luck." I remembered the day we got our marriage license. Jacob had taken me to a cheap late-night diner. He pressed the license against his chest and said, "Fay, the best thing that ever happened to me is you." We divided a six-dollar plate of pancakes, and he gave me all the strawberries. Then his career took off, he grew busier, and he slowly drifted to a height I could no longer reach. That license had been locked in the bottom drawer of my desk. When I handed it to Simon yesterday to make copies, the edges were already yellowed. "Are you listening to me?" Diane pressed. I zipped my suitcase shut. "I hear you." Jacob hung up the phone and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Just go tomorrow, Fay. Don't make this harder for me." "I'm not going." His patience finally snapped. "Fay, what are you trying to prove? Cassie is an artist, I'm her manager. Protecting her is my job." "And what is protecting me?" The question hung in the quiet room, heavy and suffocating. Jacob stared at me. It took him a long moment to find his voice. "You're safe at home. What is there to protect you from?" Headlights from a passing car swept across the ceiling. The sharp click of my suitcase locks felt like the final word in the dark. 3. The next evening, I went to his parents' house anyway. It wasn't for his father's birthday. Simon had told me that we needed Jacob to sign a few asset-disclosure forms. If we could agree on the division of property now, the court proceedings would go much faster. The living room of the family estate was bathed in warm light. Cassie was sitting on the sofa next to Diane, wearing a delicate white dress, her ankle wrapped in a fresh white bandage. Jacob was kneeling on the rug in front of her, carefully adjusting the straps of her ankle brace. "Does it hurt?" his voice was incredibly tender. I stood at the doorway, holding a gift bag for Diane. Inside was a silk scarf I had ordered months ago. A beautiful slate blue—her favorite color. Four years ago, when I first met Jacob's parents, Diane had made it clear she thought I came from a family of no standing and lacked refinement. Jacob had taken my hand right there in front of her and said, "Mom, she’s the one I chose. You don't have to love her, but you will respect her." In the end, the person who disrespected me most was him. "Fay, you're here," Cassie said, offering a soft, sympathetic smile. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have bothered Jacob today, but my ankle was just throbbing." Jacob stood up, wiping his hands. "Why are you late?" I glanced at the wall clock. It was exactly 6:00 PM. He had told me 5:30. But the text hadn't reached me until 5:28. "Traffic was bad." "Excuses," Diane muttered, setting her teacup down with a heavy clatter. "Cassie managed to get here on time with a sprained ankle, and you live twenty minutes away." Cassie gently patted Diane's arm. "Don't be hard on Fay, Diane. She might just be having a bad day." "Why would she be having a bad day?" Diane shot me a critical look, scanning me from head to toe. "Jacob provides everything for her, and she still walks around with a cloud over her head." A few relatives at the dinner table offered polite, strained chuckles. I placed the gift bag on the coffee table. "Happy birthday." Diane didn't reach for it. Cassie, however, picked it up with an eager smile. "Oh, it's beautiful. Fay, you have such lovely taste." She pulled the silk scarf out, draping it over her collarbone. "Diane, do you mind if I try it on first?" Diane’s face instantly lit up. "Of course not, dear. It looks much better on you anyway." The blue silk rested elegantly on Cassie's shoulders. Jacob saw it, but he didn't say a word. In that moment, a memory from three years ago flashed in my mind. When Diane was hospitalized, I spent two weeks cooking and delivering her meals every day. Cassie visited once, bringing a single bouquet of flowers. Diane posted a photo on her social media, thanking her "sweet, thoughtful Cassie." Jacob had commented under the post: "Thank you for taking care of Mom." My fingers had been swollen from chopping vegetables for weeks, but all I got from him was: "Don't sweat the small stuff." "Fay," Cassie said suddenly, breaking my train of thought. "Jacob mentioned you used to choreograph?" The living room went quiet. I set my glass down. "A long time ago." "Could you take a look at our new routine?" she asked, pulling out her phone. "We have dress rehearsals tomorrow, and the transition in the chorus feels incredibly awkward." Jacob finally spoke. "She hasn't danced in years." It sounded like a shield. But then he added, "Don't put her on the spot. She wouldn't really understand modern routines anyway." A relative laughed softly. Cassie covered her mouth. "Jacob, don't say that. You'll hurt Fay's feelings." They were all looking at me. Waiting for me to snap, to prove that I was as bitter and difficult as they believed. I used to be the principal dancer for a national contemporary dance company. When Jacob and I first met, he was a struggling junior manager with artists no one wanted. He used to sit in the empty theater seats during my late-night rehearsals, holding a thermos of tea, his eyes shining with a fierce ambition. Later, when his health deteriorated, I retired from the company to take care of him, helping him climb his way to the top. That year, he held my old trophy and promised: "Once I build my agency, I'll put you back on the stage." He built his agency. But he gave the stage to Cassie. I took Cassie's phone and watched the video. "The center of gravity is off on the second count of eight," I said, my voice steady. "Your left leg isn't tucking in quickly enough, which ruins the formation transition." Cassie's smile faltered. Jacob looked startled. I handed the phone back. "You're not engaging your core enough for that drop. If you force it, you're going to tear something." The room fell silent. Diane cleared her throat, clearly annoyed. "Her professional choreographers haven't said anything, so let's not make things up." "Right," I said, grabbing my purse. "Forget I said anything." Jacob rose. "Where are you going?" "To the restroom." At the end of the hall, the study door was slightly ajar. I stepped inside and placed the legal documents prepared by Simon on Jacob's mahogany desk. Footsteps approached the door. Cassie stood there, the blue silk scarf still draped over her shoulders. "Fay," she said, a small, knowing smile on her lips. "Are you really ready to throw all of this away?" She held up her phone. The screen showed a video of her and Jacob holding each other backstage. "Jacob told me he's exhausted by your silence," she whispered. "He says trying to talk to you is like dealing with a cold, damp towel." My nails dug into my palms. "Move," I said. Cassie didn't budge. She reached up, pulled the silk scarf from her neck, and dropped it straight into a half-empty mug of black coffee sitting on the side table. The slate blue fabric darkened as it drank the liquid. "When Diane asks," Cassie smiled, "I'll just tell her you were angry I wore it, and you threw it in yourself." Then Jacob's voice cut through the hallway. "Cassie." I turned. He was standing just outside the door, his eyes scanning past me, landing instantly on Cassie’s brimming eyes. 4. Cassie's tears fell instantly. "Jacob, I'm so sorry. It was an accident," she sobbed, clutching the soaked silk scarf, her shoulders trembling. "I just wanted to thank her, but Fay snatched it away so fast. I lost my grip." I looked at her. The wet scarf lay crumpled on the hardwood floor, looking like a discarded rag. Jacob stepped into the room, his hand immediately finding Cassie's wrist. "Are you hurt? Did it burn you?" "No, I'm fine," Cassie whispered, looking at me with wide, fearful eyes. "Fay, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have touched your gift." Diane and the other relatives came crowding into the hallway. "Fay!" Diane’s voice shook with rage. "It's a cheap piece of fabric! How could you treat Cassie like this?" I opened my mouth to speak. Jacob cut me off. "Enough," he said, his eyes cold and unfamiliar. "Today is Mom's birthday. Do you have to ruin every family gathering?" "You think I'm the one ruining this?" "Who else?" He lowered his voice, as if trying to preserve whatever dignity I had left. "Cassie has a dress rehearsal tomorrow and her ankle is already injured. Can you please stop taking your insecurities out on her?" The weight of their stares felt like needles. I wanted to laugh. The last time he had defended me like this was at our wedding. The florist had sent the wrong centerpieces, and Diane had blamed me in front of the guests. Jacob had stood up and declared to the room: "I'm the one who begged her to marry me. If there’s a mistake, blame me. Leave my wife alone." That day, I believed I had married a man who would stand between me and the storm. I didn't know he would become the storm itself. "It's fine, Jacob," Cassie whimpered. "Fay is only sensitive because she loves you so much." Jacob’s gaze hardened further. "Apologize." The word fell like a heavy stone. I froze. "To her?" "To Cassie. And to my mother." In the background, a cousin whispered, "Jacob has too much patience. She needs to be put in her place." Diane kicked the wet scarf toward my feet. "Apologize, and then clean up this mess." I bent down and picked up the ruined scarf. My fingers were stained with cold coffee. "Jacob," I said, looking up at him. He stared back, his jaw tight. "Do you remember when I ordered this scarf? It was nearly a year ago." He frowned. "Don't change the subject." "Do you remember that I used to dance?" "Fay," he said, his tone carrying a sharp warning. "Don't use the past to guilt-trip me." "The past." Retiring from the company to manage his early career was "the past." Selling my principal dancer's prize money to pay for his office rent was "the past." Sitting in the hospital hallway for three sleepless nights when his stomach bled was "the past." Ruining my spine and joints so badly that I could never perform at that level again was "the past." "Fay," Cassie said softly, "Jacob is under so much pressure. You shouldn't keep throwing the past in his face." I turned to her. "Shut up." Cassie’s face drained of color. Jacob’s hand instantly clamped down on my wrist. His grip was fiercely tight. "Fay, you’ve gone too far." "You're hurting me." He loosened his grip slightly but didn't let go. "Apologize." The bones in my wrist throbbed. Inside my purse, my phone began to vibrate. Simon’s name lit up the screen. I reached in with my free hand and slid it to answer. "Fay? Did you get him to sign the papers?" The room suddenly went quiet. Jacob’s brow furrowed. "What papers?" Simon's voice carried clearly through the line. "The supplementary documents for the divorce filing. He needs to sign the acknowledgment of service tomorrow morning." Cassie's crying stopped. Diane’s furious expression froze. Jacob stared at me, his eyes blank, as if trying to translate a foreign language. "Fay. Tell me what he just said." I looked down at his hand gripping my wrist. His wedding band was still on his finger. He hadn't stopped wearing it because of his job. He only wore it when he was around me, to remind me he was still mine. I reached up and, finger by finger, pried his hand off my wrist. "Jacob, I want a divorce."