Chapter 1

1

The evening before Thanksgiving, Lauren pulled out the brass decision wheel, exactly as she had for the past seven years.

It was an antique-style roulette spinner she’d bought off an artisan on Etsy before we were married. One half of the dial had Austin’s name engraved into the lacquer; the other half had mine.

Wherever the slender arrow settled determined whose table she sat at for the holiday.

In seven years, it had never once pointed to me.

"Same rule as always, Marcus," she said, her fingers resting lightly on the polished rim. Her tone carried that smooth, practiced lightness she used whenever she wanted to preempt an argument. "Whichever side it lands on, no sulking. No scenes."

I looked at the brass needle, catching the warm yellow glow of our kitchen pendant.

"Go ahead," I said. "Spin it."

She gave it a practiced flick. The wheel whirred, a soft, rhythmic ticking that gradually slowed, dragging out the inevitable until the friction took over and the needle shuddered to a halt.

Austin Cole.

Not a flicker of surprise crossed Lauren’s face. She merely exhaled, a quiet sigh of routine vindication, and reached for her trench coat draped over the back of the dining chair.

"Looks like I’m flying out to Seattle again," she murmured, adjusting her collar. "I’ll see you Sunday night."

I didn't answer.

I waited until she had picked up her weekender bag, until her hand was on the brass handle of the front door.

"Lauren."

She paused, looking back over her shoulder with an arched brow, mildly puzzled.

I kept my voice quiet. "When you get back on Sunday, let’s go down to the county clerk’s office. Let’s file for divorce."

Her fingers froze on the doorknob. For a second, her expression was completely blank, as if her mind couldn't quite translate the syllables. Then her eyebrows pulled together into a sharp, irritated crease.

"Marcus, we had an agreement. You promised you wouldn’t pull this."

We had an agreement. But this wasn't a tantrum. It was the calmest thought I’d had in months.

Lauren clicked her tongue, that tiny, dismissive sound she made when an intern turned in sloppy work. "You sat there and nodded. Now what? You’re using divorce to hold me hostage because a wheel didn’t spin your way?"

I reached down and twisted the platinum band on my left ring finger. It turned smoothly against my skin.

"It’s not a threat," I said evenly. "I just don't want to be married to you anymore."

With a quiet slide, I pulled the ring off.

Seven years. I had worn it every single day for seven years. Beneath it, the skin of my ring finger was pale and indented, an indelible ghost of a promise. It felt unnervingly bare without the weight of the metal, light in a way that made my chest ache with phantom friction.

It felt strange. But anything feels strange until you get used to it. Give it enough time, and the skin forgets.

I set the ring on the dark wood of the entryway console.

"I’ll have a family lawyer draft the dissolution agreement," I told her, meeting her gaze. "All you have to do when you get back is sign."

Lauren stared at the ring on the table, then dragged her eyes up to mine. Her jaw set hard.

"Marcus, we’ve done this every single year since we got married," she said, her voice dropping into a stern, measured register. "Why on earth are you picking a fight tonight? You agreed to the arrangement. Now you’re reneging?"

Yes. For seven years, this was how it went.

Every late November, on the eve of the holiday meant for family and homecoming, Lauren would set out the wheel to decide whether she stayed home with her husband or flew across the country to spend Thanksgiving with Austin Cole.

Before our wedding, she had sat me down with tears in her eyes and told me she had made a solemn promise to Austin years ago—that no matter what happened, she would never let him spend Thanksgiving alone. But after we got engaged, she conceded that spending every holiday with another man looked terrible. So she presented the wheel as a fair compromise. Fifty-fifty. If it chose me, she stayed. If it chose Austin, she went.

Only, for seven straight years, the brass arrow had locked onto Austin’s name with uncanny precision. Seven Thanksgivings, seven empty seats across from me, while she sat in Seattle.

"I’m not throwing a fit, and I’m not reneging on anything," I said. My voice was eerily level, devoid of the tremor that used to betray me. "You’re free to go to Seattle. But my decision stands. I want a divorce."

"Because the needle didn't point to you?" Her patience was wearing thin, an edge of contempt creeping into her tone.

Partly. And partly not.

We had never shared a single Thanksgiving as husband and wife. Seven years of odds, and not once had the coin landed on my face. A naive, pathetic part of me had whispered that maybe the eighth year would be different. Maybe the universe would finally throw me a bone.

It hadn't. Fifty percent odds, and I had lost eight times in a row.

"What do you want me to do about the laws of physics, Marcus?" Lauren frowned deeply, regarding me with the exhausted disappointment one reserves for an unreasonable child. "You’re a grown man. Are you seriously throwing our marriage away over a parlor game?"

She glanced down at her Apple Watch, tapping the screen impatiently.

"We’ll deal with whatever mood you’re in when I get back. Stop being ridiculous. I baked a bourbon pecan pie and left it in the fridge—make sure you heat a slice tomorrow. I have to go, or I’ll miss my boarding group at O'Hare—"

"Lauren," I interrupted.

My voice was very quiet, but it stopped her cold.

"Do you dare to spin it again?"

A sudden, microscopic stiffening caught the corners of her mouth. Her eyes flickered.

"Right now," I repeated, holding her gaze. "Spin it one more time."

Lauren scrutinized my face, searching for whatever trap she assumed I was laying. But my expression was a blank slate, identical to every other year. Slowly, the tension drained from her shoulders, replaced by a cool, faintly mocking smirk.

She set her bag down and walked back to the kitchen counter. "Why wouldn't I? If I spin it again, does this little theatrical performance end?"

I pushed the heavy wooden base toward her. "Spin it. If it lands on him, I drop it." I paused, my voice dropping an octave. "Whatever the result... I’ll accept it."

I tipped my chin toward the brass arrow. "Go."

"Fine."

With a flick of her manicured wrist, she sent the wheel spinning.

Neither of us breathed. The ticking was louder this time, echoing off the marble subway tiles. Slower. Slower. A final metallic shudder.

The arrow clicked to a dead stop.

Pointed directly at my name. Marcus.

Lauren froze. The color drained from her lips in an instant, leaving her face entirely blank.

She stared at the letters of my name under the brass tip as if they were written in a foreign language. "How... how did..."

Her head snapped up, her eyes wide and accused. "Marcus, did you touch this? Did you mess with the—"

She choked on her own sentence.

The realization hit her like a physical blow. Her voice died in her throat.

Slowly, her hands trembling just enough to rattle the brass, she flipped the wooden disk over.

I didn't move. I simply reached into my pocket, pulled out a small, flat circle of silver metal, and set it on the dark wood between us with a quiet click.

"Were you looking for this?"

I had palmed it right before I slid the board over to her.

Lauren looked at the tiny neodymium magnet on the counter, and her face went paper-white.

It was no larger than a button, glued to the underside directly beneath Austin’s name. A hidden weight, strong enough to drag the magnetic needle toward his half every single time. It had lived there for seven years, guaranteeing seven Thanksgivings, seven departures, seven quiet abandonments.

Yesterday, while wiping down the high shelves in the study, I had accidentally knocked the box off the shelf. The board had hit the hardwood, and the tiny magnet had dislodged, bouncing across the floor like a dropped coin.

If not for that clumsy accident, I would have spent the rest of my life believing in bad luck. I would have lived and died thinking God simply didn't want me to have her on Thanksgiving.

I looked at the woman I had built a home with, feeling a terrible, hollow amusement rise in my chest.

How absurd. How utterly pathetic.

Seven years of playing the supportive, understanding husband, chalking up my loneliness to the cruel whims of a spinning wheel, while she pulled the strings from day one.

"Don't you think," I said quietly, "you owe me an explanation, Lauren?"

The house was dead silent.

I didn't push. I didn't yell. I just sat on the barstool and gave her all the room in the world to speak.

The silence stretched until the sharp, jaunty ring of her iPhone shattered it.

Lauren glanced down at the screen on the counter. Her rigid posture softened by an imperceptible fraction.

I didn't need to see the display. It was Austin.

She didn't pick up immediately. Instead, she looked up at me, her eyes darting away before finding mine again.

"Marcus... I’ll explain everything when I get back from Seattle." She swallowed hard, turning her head toward the dark hallway. "Austin doesn't really have anyone out there. He’s completely alone this year, and his seasonal depression... I just can't leave him hanging."

She couldn't leave him hanging.

So she could leave me.

I looked at her, and for a fleeting second, the past ten years collapsed into a single, blurry frame.

We had dated for three years before the seven of marriage. I was the one who pursued her. Back then, Austin had just left the States for a master’s program in London. I had spent eight relentless months trying to win Lauren over. Even when she looked me in the eye and said she wasn't ready, that her heart was elsewhere, that I was wasting my time, I hadn't backed down.

“So what?” I had told her back then, grinning with the reckless confidence of a twenty-four-year-old in love. “You don't have to say yes. That’s your business. Chasing you is mine.”

I thought love was a war of attrition. I thought if I poured enough warmth into her, the ice would eventually thaw.

And for a long time, I believed it worked. When we finally got together, she was devoted, gentle, and present. I spent years congratulating myself on my stubbornness.

So when, just weeks before our wedding, Austin moved back to the States and Lauren came to me with that tearful, conflicted request about Thanksgiving, I swallowed the bile in my throat and agreed to the wheel. I told myself it was just one holiday. I told myself fifty-fifty meant there was always a chance.

Year one. Year two. Year three. Seven straight years. And now, the eighth.

"You don't need to explain," I said, my voice empty of anger, empty of everything. "Go. He’s waiting for you."

Lauren looked at me, and a wave of relief visibly washed over her. Her tense shoulders dropped. She offered me a soft, placating smile, reaching out to squeeze my wrist with practiced warmth.

"Thank you, Marcus. I promise you—next year, we’ll spend Thanksgiving right here. Just the two of us."

She grabbed her coat and her bag, and the front door clicked shut behind her.

The house sank into absolute stillness.

My eyes fell on the platinum band resting on the console table.

I picked it up, walked to the kitchen, and tossed it into the stainless-steel trash can beneath the sink. It hit the plastic liner with a dull, hollow thud.

There wasn't going to be a next year.

By Thursday evening, Austin’s new post popped up on my Instagram feed.

He was a lifestyle and relationship creator with a little over a hundred and fifty thousand followers, a brand he’d spent the last several years curating. Lauren had been his very first follower.

I tapped the screen.

It was a candid selfie of the two of them, taken in front of an upscale restaurant in downtown Seattle. Their cheeks were pressed together, a heart drawn across their skin with red lipstick—half on his cheekbone, half on hers, forming a whole where their faces met.

The caption read: Thanksgiving is for the people who make your heart feel like home.

Since our wedding, Lauren had never once taken a photo like that with me. Whenever I asked for a quick anniversary picture or a snap on vacation, she would sigh, rub her temples, and say, "I’m exhausted from work, Marcus. Can we just enjoy the moment without documenting it?" Eventually, I stopped asking.

I stared at his caption for a long time.

Eight years. He had posted that exact sentiment, with her beside him, eight Thanksgivings in a row.

During our first two years of marriage, I had asked Lauren why she let him post things that looked so blatantly romantic. She had laughed it off, patting my arm: "He’s an influencer, honey. He needs engagement, he needs an aesthetic narrative to grow his audience. It’s just social media."

I scrolled down into the comments.

Oh my god, eight years of the same girl every holiday! When are you putting a ring on it already?!

This is real soulmate energy. Happy Thanksgiving to the sweetest couple!

Hundreds of comments, all swooning over the enduring romance of Austin Cole and the mysterious woman who flew across the country for him every autumn.

If he was the person who made her heart feel like home, what did that make the man holding down the fort in her actual house?

As I went to close the app, a new notification pinged. Austin had replied to the top comment about proposing.

He had tagged Lauren’s personal account: @lauren_e.

Better ask the boss. I’m just waiting for her to say yes~

Lauren’s private Instagram account followed exactly two people: Austin, and me. Originally, it had been only Austin. It took a quiet, humiliating argument three years ago for her to finally hit 'follow' on mine.

I watched the screen for two minutes.

Then, a reply appeared under his tag from @lauren_e:

Ask me properly and find out~

The air left my lungs in a cold, ragged hitch. My throat felt thick, as if I’d swallowed sand.

Within twenty minutes, that single reply had garnered thousands of likes. Strangers from across the country were cheering, tagging their friends, declaring that true love had finally won.

I took a screenshot and sent it to Lauren’s iMessage. No words. Just the image.

An hour later, her reply drifted back:

Marcus, it’s just PR. Don't read into it.

A single sentence. No follow-up.

To her, that was an explanation. She assumed that, like every other time over the last seven years, I would swallow my pride, adjust my expectations, and be the understanding husband who didn't embarrass her.

I didn't text back. I reopened Instagram and refreshed Austin’s profile.

A new post had gone up five minutes prior.

A close-up shot of Lauren’s hand resting against a linen napkin, a sparkling diamond solitaire ring catching the candlelight on her finger.

No caption. Just a single tag pinned directly to her knuckle: @lauren_e.

This time, I didn't send a screenshot. I didn't feel the urge to ask.

Around eleven that night, my phone buzzed with an incoming call from Lauren. Guilt, or perhaps a rare prick of panic, had finally caught up to her.

"Marcus," she said the moment I picked up, her voice rushed and breathless. "Please don't overthink this. Austin’s management team wanted a spike in engagement before Black Friday brand deals. The comments started speculating, so they decided to lean into it. It’s entirely fake. Don't take it to heart."

Don't take it to heart.

I couldn't count how many times she had uttered those five words.

When Austin texted her paragraphs about his daily routines, she told me not to take it to heart because he was lonely. When she booked a last-minute flight to California two years ago to spend his thirtieth birthday with him, she told me not to take it to heart because she was just being a loyal friend. Now, she was wearing his ring on the internet, and once again, I was supposed to leave my heart out of it.

"Lauren—"

Before I could finish, a muffled male voice cut through the receiver on her end.

"Lauren? You’re not getting an Uber to the hotel tonight, right? I already made up your old room with fresh sheets."

It was Austin. His voice was casual, intimate with the ease of long familiarity. Then, as if suddenly noticing the phone pressed to her ear, his tone dropped into a conspiratorial whisper: "Wait... are you talking to Marcus?"

There was a five-second void on the line.

Then Lauren answered, her voice slightly strained: "No. Just an old friend from the office."

An old friend.

A quiet, breathless laugh escaped my chest. Seven years of marriage, and I had been demoted to a colleague from work.

On the other end, Austin let out an exaggerated sigh of relief. "Thank god. I thought he was calling to yell at you about the engagement post. I would’ve felt awful."

"It’s fine," Lauren said smoothly, her words meant for both him and me. "I’ll handle it when I’m back. He understands how these things work."

I hung up.

Five minutes later, my screen illuminated on the counter.

He gets insecure and overthinks things if he knows we’re arguing, she texted. I only said that to keep the peace. I’m flying back Saturday morning.

Saturday?

Fine. By then, my lawyer would have the initial draft of the divorce papers ready anyway.

Still, looking at the dark glass of the window, I couldn't help the dry, bitter smirk on my face. All those years, she told me she only met him for holiday dinners, that she booked a room at the Hyatt, that boundaries were maintained.

And all along, she had her own bedroom in his apartment.

I didn't text back.

I walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. The shelf was stacked with gourmet bourbon pecan pies from the bakery across town. She remembered I liked them, so she bought three of them, stacking them neatly like compensation checks.

I pulled one out, cut a slice, and carried the plate to the balcony.

The late-autumn Chicago chill bit through my flannel shirt. The skyline was vast and indifferent. I took a bite of the pie. The sugar was overwhelming, heavy and cloying, but beneath the syrup, I couldn't taste a thing.

My phone rang again. A FaceTime request from my mother.

I took a slow breath, smoothed down my expression, and hit accept.

"Marcus, sweetie! Happy Thanksgiving!" My mom’s face filled the screen, the warm, chaotic noise of my parents’ house in Ohio buzzing in the background. "Are you eating pie? How’s Lauren? Tell her I sent love!"

I smiled, angling the camera down to show the plate in my hand. "Eating right now, Mom. Don't worry, I didn't forget the traditions."

"Good boy. You work too hard. Make sure you two get some rest."

I chatted with them for five minutes, cracking a couple of lighthearted jokes before making an excuse about an early morning project to hang up. I couldn't let my voice crack. If my mother heard even a sliver of the truth, she would have booked the first flight out here.

Lauren didn't return on Saturday. She came home Friday evening.

And she didn't come alone.

I was in the living room boxing up my cookbooks when the front door swung open. Lauren stepped into the foyer, looking exhausted and frayed at the edges. Behind her, carrying a duffel bag with a subdued, wounded expression, was Austin Cole.

"We caught the early red-eye," Lauren said, kicking off her boots. Her tone was defensive before I’d even spoken. "Austin had an incident this morning. An unhinged follower showed up at his building in Seattle—she found out his address, saw the proposal post, and completely lost it in the lobby. The police were called."

She rubbed her temples, sighing heavily. "His building isn't safe right now. He couldn't stay there, so I brought him here until his management finds him a secure rental."

Austin stepped forward, his eyes cast down in performative contrition.

"Marcus, man... I’m so sorry about this," he said, his voice soft, almost trembling with modesty. "Lauren was terrified for me, but I know this is an imposition. If you’re uncomfortable with me being here... I can just go. I’ll find a motel near the airport or something."

He looked at Lauren, then back at me, playing the fragile victim with absolute mastery.

He didn't have to say a word of cruelty; the mere posture painted me as heartless before I could open my mouth.

"He’s not uncomfortable," Lauren interjected briskly, waving Austin toward the guest room. "You’re staying here, Austin. Marcus understands the situation."

She shot me a sharp, warning glare, a silent command to fall in line.

Why the hell should I?

"I am uncomfortable," I said clearly.

Austin flinched, shrinking back against the wall.

I looked straight at Austin. "If you were truly worried about making me uncomfortable, you would have checked into a hotel straight from the airport instead of bringing your bags into my house."

"Marcus!" Lauren’s voice cracked like a whip.

She quickly placed a soothing hand on Austin’s arm, whispering, "Give us a second, okay?" before grabbing my sleeve and dragging me down the hall into the kitchen.

"Are you out of your mind?" she hissed, her eyes blazing with fury. "A stalker cornered him in his own home! He’s traumatized! You want him sitting alone in some dingy airport motel where anyone could find him? Where is your basic human empathy?"

I looked at the woman I had spent a decade loving, and a low, tired laugh escaped my lips.

"I don't care about his safety, Lauren," I said, keeping my voice entirely normal, perfectly loud enough to carry through the open floor plan to the living room. "This is my home. And I will not have him sleeping under my roof."

Lauren’s face contorted into something ugly and dark. "Marcus, can you stop being so unbelievably selfish for once in your life?"

"Selfish?" I sneered, stepping closer to her. "I gave you eight Thanksgivings with him. I stayed silent while you let him propose to you for his social media metrics. And now you expect me to host him in the home I paid half for?"

In the hallway, Austin let out a shaky breath.

"You know what, Lauren? Forget it," he stammered, his eyes red-rimmed and glistening with tears. "I shouldn't have come. Please... don't ruin your marriage over me."

With that, he grabbed his duffel bag, yanked the front door open, and ran out into the cold corridor.

Lauren looked at me with an expression of profound, sickening disgust. "You are pathetic," she spat.

She turned on her heel and sprinted out the door after him.

The heavy door slammed shut.

In the sudden vacuum of the quiet loft, my phone vibrated in my pocket.

A notification from my attorney’s office:

Mr. Miller, the martial settlement agreement has been finalized and uploaded to the portal. Please review and sign at your earliest convenience.