Chapter 1My husband asked, "Why aren't you wearing the watch I gave you?"
Ha.
Because it has her initials inside. Because you gave it to me to make her jealous.
But I just said, "I don't like it."
Then I handed him the documents. He flipped through fifty pages without reading one. "I trust you."
Then signed right next to "Marital Dissolution Agreement."
Thirty days. That's how long I gave myself to leave.
Too bad he never notice the missing photos, the half-empty closet, or me.
Tonight, he's taking her to Skyline Terrace. Drone show, champagne, the works.
Me? One-way ticket to Zurich.
Tomorrow he'll realize he signed away the only person who ever ran his company.
But don't worry—I'll be back. And when I am, I'll take everything he has, piece by piece.
--
We were both liars, my husband and I.
He'd broken the same promise ninety-nine times. Every time he swore he was done with her, that he'd thrown out every last thing she'd ever touched.
And every time, I found the proof hidden somewhere—a dried flower in his journal, a photograph tucked inside a book, her initials carved into the back of a watch case.
I only told one lie. But mine was the one that ended everything.
Three hours earlier, I'd packed my suitcases and booked a one-way ticket to Zurich.
Two hours earlier, I'd cut every wedding photo we'd ever taken into strips and fed them through the shredder.
One hour earlier, I'd slid the divorce papers into the middle of a fifty-page equity restructuring agreement.
Ten years I'd loved him. Today, I stopped.
Chandler Hollister walked into the study that afternoon with his tie already loosened, one hand scrolling through his phone. He glanced at my bare wrist and frowned.
"Why aren't you wearing the watch I gave you?"
"I just took it off," I said, keeping my face neutral. "It's too delicate for everyday stuff."
He shrugged and reached for the stack of documents I'd placed on his desk. "You never wear accessories anyway. Not your thing."
"Not really," I said, watching him flip past the first page.
The truth was, I couldn't wear jewelry when I was scrubbing his shirts or reaching into hot ovens. But he never noticed that.
And the watch he'd given me last month with such a grand gesture, still had Freya Lindholm's initials engraved on the inside of the case back. I'd found them when I polished it.
Chandler paused at page three, squinting. "This is thick. Did you add new clauses?"
"Just a few standard governance updates," I said, keeping my voice even. "You can read through if you want."
He waved a hand and flipped to the signature page. "No need. You handle the numbers better than anyone."
He signed his name with a quick flourish, right next to the tiny print that said Marital Dissolution Agreement. He didn't even glance at it.
I took the signed copy and pressed my lips together.
He wasn't trusting me. He just wasn't even present. His mind was already downtown, at the gallery opening Freya had organized for her return to the city.
Three years ago, Freya had gotten engaged to a Swiss financier and moved to Geneva.
Chandler had been so furious he'd dragged me to City Hall on a Tuesday afternoon, told the clerk we were in a hurry, and walked out with a marriage license neither of us had shown to anyone.
No ring, no ceremony, no witnesses. Just a signature on a line.
He'd never told a soul.
To the world, Chandler was Manhattan's most eligible bachelor, the kind of hedge fund partner who showed up alone to every gala, always charming, always untouchable.
I was his CFO, his numbers girl, the quiet one in the back of the room. Nobody ever questioned why I had a key to his apartment.
I'd known the truth from the start.
The night we got back from the courthouse, he got drunk on the terrace and muttered her name in his sleep.
Freya. He'd never stopped loving her. He was just too proud to admit she'd chosen someone else.
On our third anniversary, I cooked a full dinner, steak, roasted potatoes, a chocolate tart I'd spent three hours on. He got a call during the appetizer.
I watched his face transform from bored to radiant in two seconds flat. He grabbed his jacket and said, "Something came up. Don't wait up."
I checked her Instagram that night. Freya had posted a photo of her divorce decree with the caption "Free at last." And Chandler was there in the background, holding a champagne flute.
Later that night, I heard fireworks from the terrace. I walked outside, still in my apron, and looked up. Above the Hudson, a drone display lit up the sky—a massive heart, and inside it, the letters "C + F."
I stood there gripping the railing until the cold burned my palms. The lights painted my face red and gold, and I finally understood:
You can't make someone love you. You can't even make them notice you're gone until you are.
I went back inside, picked the watch up off the console, and wound it fully. I set the moon disk to full. Thirty days of power left in the spring. Thirty days until the hands stopped moving.
I put it back on the console and walked away.
One month later, the watch stopped ticking.
Our marriage lasted exactly as long as that spring.
And Chandler had no idea it had already run out.
Chapter 2
Fifteen days left on that watch spring. Fifteen days until the hands stopped.
Chandler had been out almost every night that week.
He'd leave before sunrise and stumble back past midnight, his suits reeking of whiskey and expensive cologne.
The guy used to hate drinking. He'd nurse a single glass of Scotch all evening if he had to. But lately? He was grinning, loose, happy in a way I hadn't seen in years.
That evening, he asked me to come to a gallery opening with him. "Wait by the entrance," he said, already halfway out the door. "I need to pick someone up."
I knew who. I didn't even have to guess. The passenger seat was reserved for one person.
I hung up and stood by the curb, scrolling through my phone to look busy. A few feet away, two women in designer dresses were whispering.
"Did you hear? Hollister's bringing a date tonight."
"A date? He never brings anyone. Isn't that his assistant he always has with him?"
"The assistant's just for work. This is different. It's Freya."
"Wait—his first love? The one who left him for that Swiss guy?"
"She's back. And apparently, she's single again."
I kept my head down and walked past them. They were talking about me—the so-called assistant. Nobody knew I was his wife.
Chandler had built that image too well, the eternal bachelor who showed up alone, who never got attached.
People saw me beside him at every event and thought nothing of it. Why would they? He never touched me in public, never introduced me as anything other than "my CFO." And even that was rare.
Now he was walking in with Freya on his arm, and everyone was eating it up.
I made it inside just as his black SUV pulled up. I watched from the doorway as he stepped out, circled the car, and opened the passenger door.
Freya emerged in a cream silk gown, her blonde hair swept back. They were matching—black and white, sleek, perfect.
I turned away and headed for the main hall. The partnership presentation was in thirty minutes, and I needed to get the documents to Daphne Sterling before it started.
I found Daphne by the bar. She flipped through my spreadsheets and let out a low whistle. "Annelise, this is clean. Really clean. You're not just a numbers person—you're a strategist."
I shrugged it off. "It's just formatting."
But as I said it, my eyes caught Chandler's across the room. He was staring at me. Not the usual dismissive glance—something longer, something that felt almost like seeing me for the first time.
He nodded once, and I looked away.
Then the crash came.
Someone had knocked over a bottle of essential oil on the side table, cedarwood. The glass shattered on the marble floor, and the smell hit me like a wall.
Cedarwood. My throat closed up instantly.
I stumbled backward, clawing at my collar. The room was spinning. Red welts started blooming up my arms.
Chandler was already moving. But he wasn't coming toward me.
"Freya! Get out of here! You're allergic!" he shouted, shoving through the crowd.
I fell. My knees hit the floor hard, and the scent was even stronger down there, thick and cloying. Through the haze, I saw Chandler sweep Freya into his arms and carry her toward the exit. She was fine—she wasn't even coughing. But he wasn't looking back.
He never looked back.
I lay there on the cold marble, gasping, watching the bottom of his shoes disappear through the door.
Three years of marriage.
He forgot our anniversary every single year. He once called me by her name in his sleep. But he always, always remembered that I was allergic to cedarwood.
I'd told myself that meant something. That even if he didn't love me, he at least cared enough to keep me safe.
Turns out, he wasn't remembering me at all.
He was remembering HER.
The person he thought was allergic? That was Freya. He'd mixed us up.
All those years, every time he warned me away from a cedar-scented room, he wasn't thinking about me. He was thinking about HER.
I pressed my forehead to the cold floor and let the spots swim in front of my eyes.
Fourteen days left on that watch spring.
And for the first time, I didn't care if it stopped.
Chapter 3
Daphne was the one who screamed first. "Someone call 911! Chandler—your CFO is on the floor!"
That snapped him out of it. He turned around, finally saw me crumpled against the marble, and his face went white.
He rushed back, scooped me up, and carried me out to the curb while Daphne dialed.
The ambulance came fast. They shoved an oxygen mask on me, and the next thing I knew, I was in the ER with an IV dripping antihistamines into my arm.
Chandler stayed. For once.
He ran the paperwork, talked to the nurses, hovered at the foot of my bed like he actually gave a damn. But every time our eyes met, I saw guilt. Pure, heavy guilt. He knew he'd screwed up.
Freya had been admitted to the same hospital once—a few years ago, before she left for Geneva.
She'd had some minor surgery. Chandler had sat in this exact waiting room for six hours. I knew because I'd driven him.
Now he was pacing the same hallway, but for me. And Freya was fine, by the way—she'd walked out of the gallery on her own two feet. Not a single sneeze.
She came by the ER room once, probably to check if Chandler was still there. She chatted with him casually, asked about the incident, threw me a polite smile. I smiled back and said nothing. She left after five minutes.
After that, Chandler stopped coming.
I spent the next week alone in that hospital room, scrolling through social media.
Freya posted every day. Photos from a spa in the Hamptons. A lobster dinner at some beach club. And there Chandler was in every single shot, relaxed, grinning, arm around her like they were on a honeymoon.
The caption read: [Recovering from a stressful week with my favorite person. Some things never change.]
I locked my phone and stared at the ceiling.
Two days left on that watch spring. Two days until the hands stopped.
Then, out of nowhere, Chandler walked into my room on the morning of my discharge.
He never picked me up from anything. In three years, I'd taken cabs, Ubers, the subway. But here he was, holding a paper cup of coffee he didn't offer me.
"You feeling better?" he asked, standing by the window.
"Much better," I said, keeping my voice flat.
He shifted his weight. The silence stretched. Then he cleared his throat.
"Listen, I noticed you never wear that watch I gave you. Maybe I can get you a new one? Something you actually like?"
I shook my head.
"I'll get you anything," he pressed. "Even if you don't wear it, just having it might make you happy."
I understood immediately. He wanted the old watch back.
Freya would recognize it if she ever saw it on my wrist. It had her initials on the case. He was afraid she'd ask questions.
If he gave me a new one, he could quietly return the old one to her—like nothing ever happened.
And for some reason, that realization didn't hurt anymore. It just felt... light.
"I don't want the old one. And I don't need a new one," I said. "Just take me to the Ferris wheel one last time."
He blinked. "The old one at the Hudson pier? Why?"
"Just once. Before I leave."
He nodded quickly. "Sure. Day after tomorrow. I'll clear my schedule."
"And I need you to fire me," I added.
He paused. "Fire you?"
"Terminate my contract. Make it official."
He studied me for a long second, then shrugged. "Fair enough. Besides—you being allergic to cedarwood, it's not really safe for you to be at events anyway. Better you stay home."
I smiled faintly. He didn't say the rest out loud, but I heard it anyway. Freya would take over my office. My desk. My title. She'd be the new CFO by next quarter.
I packed my medication into my bag and stood up.
Two days left. And after that, none of it would matter.
