His First Wife Is Walking Out

Summary

The night of my birthday, I spent six hours baking a cake, waiting at home for Dean Lawson.

He didn't spare it a glance. "I'm buried in the lab tonight," he said, already halfway out the door. "You should just eat it yourself."

I didn't argue. I just ate the entire cake, slice by silent slice.

In my midnight scroll, Dean’s post was glaringly conspicuous: a photo with his research assistant, Phoebe Carter, in the lab. She was holding a test tube; he was leaning over, recording data. The reflection in the polished window made it look like they were practically standing on top of each other.