Chapter 1When I was 7, a young pretty woman came home hanging on Dad's arm and gave me an apple.
Mom watched me happily eating the apple, then signed her name on the divorce papers.
From then on, apples became my lifelong nightmare.
So on our wedding day, I told my husband Jaxon Reed: "If you want a divorce, just give me an apple."
From then on, apples also became his taboo.
In our fifth year of marriage, Jaxon's childhood sweetheart accidentally left an apple on his desk, and he immediately fired her.
In that moment, I felt he was my destined man.
Until half a year later, when I returned from overseas negotiations.
At the welcome party, Jaxon handed me a drink.
Without thinking, I downed it in one gulp, when that woman who'd been kicked out of the company suddenly popped her head out from behind him:
"How's the apple juice?"
I looked at Jaxon in disbelief, but he was holding back laughter:
"Don't be mad, Paisley insisted I play a joke on you."
"I didn't give you an apple—just gave you a bottle of apple juice."
"But, but I think Paisley's right. Not eating apples is just your problem! Look how happily you just drank it!"
I kept a cold expression, raised my hand and splashed the remaining apple juice on his face, then turned and left.
Some things are never jokes.
Apples aren't, and neither is my wanting a divorce.
...
"Miss Winters, you're experiencing a gastric flare-up triggered by acute stress."
"Whatever you can't stomach, literally avoid it at all costs. Next time it might not just be pain—we could be looking at surgery."
"We need to keep you overnight for observation. Please contact your emergency contact ASAP."
The doctor's words hit me like a brick wall.
I'd just survived 39 days of hell overseas, grinding non-stop on this massive project, and made it back in one piece.
Only to have Jaxon Reed's single glass of apple juice land me straight in the ER at our victory dinner.
My fingers moved on autopilot to our pinned chat, typing out two words before something made me freeze.
I double-checked the name. Yep, definitely Jaxon Reed.
But he'd changed his profile pic.
To a bright green apple.
While I'm staring at my phone like an idiot, Jaxon's call comes through.
His voice cuts through the speaker, ice-cold:
"I'm already home. Where the hell are you?"
Dead silence on my end.
Any other night, I'd go all soft and sweet, playing the cute girlfriend card.
Tonight? I've got nothing.
Jaxon's getting pissed:
"Stella, how long are you gonna keep this drama..."
"Hospital."
That shuts him up. He's never given two shits about my health.
Never would've guessed his precious apple juice just sent me to the ER.
"Stay put. I'm coming."
I don't want to deal with him, but I'm too wiped out to argue.
Hours crawl by. Three different doctors check on me. Still no Jaxon.
Right before bed, I make the mistake of scrolling social media and see Paisley's latest post:
[My knight in shining armor always shows up when I'm hurt ✨]
The photo? Jaxon putting a Band-Aid on her finger.
Paisley's profile pic is a red apple.
Pretty, but it makes me sick.
Ten years together, and Jaxon's always known my boundaries.
Years in corporate hell taught him exactly how to handle other women without crossing lines.
But lately? He's been trampling right over them.
So maybe it's time to cut the thread that's been holding us together.
Chapter 2
Wake up the next morning to radio silence from Jaxon. No texts, no calls.
Whatever. I'm past caring.
After my follow-up comes back clear, I head straight home.
Our 4,000-square-foot mansion—paid for in cash last year by both of us.
Seven years ago, fresh out of college, we were splitting ramen in a basement apartment.
Five years ago when we got married, we celebrated at some dive bar, then picked up a tiny cake from the grocery store.
Now I'm licking my wounds alone in this empty palace.
I guess I'll get used to it.
I'm reviewing the divorce papers my lawyer sent when Jaxon walks in.
Along with a cloud of heavy jasmine perfume that hits me like a truck.
Jaxon's got crazy sensitive skin—allergic to half the beauty products on the market. Always said he couldn't stand perfume.
Because of that, I've gone makeup-free for years, even handpicking unscented shampoo.
Guess those rules only applied to me.
He spots me on the couch with my tablet and freezes:
"Paisley got wasted last night and took a nasty spill. Had to get her home safe."
"It got super late, and her place is way across town, so I crashed at some random hotel nearby. That's why I couldn't make it to pick you up."
I nod, highlighting another clause that screws me over, and mutter:
"Got it."
Jaxon opens his mouth, then seems to malfunction.
Like my reaction totally blindsided him.
He takes a couple steps closer, looking down at me:
"It's Saturday—forget work for once. Want to go do something fun?"
I glance up. "You didn't bother with me last night, so don't start now, okay?"
Something in my tone makes him... relieved? Then he continues: "Fair enough. Just grabbing something, then I'm out. Handle lunch yourself."
"Dinner though—let's celebrate your triumphant return."
I know this is his guilt offering for last night.
Without looking up, I give him a noncommittal "sure" and go back to studying the divorce papers.
Was gonna bring up divorce over lunch, but since he's busy, tonight works better.
The paperwork needs tweaking anyway.
Jaxon stuffs something in his bag, grabs his jacket from the door, and bolts.
CRASH!
The picture frame that's been on our wall for seven years suddenly hits the floor.
Glass everywhere.
It's our photo "at the Eiffel Tower"—us holding hands, grinning like idiots.
Seven years ago on my birthday, we celebrated with two hot dogs from street, then went home and Photoshopped ourselves into a stock photo of Paris.
That night, he promised we'd take the real deal someday.
The empty house fills with nothing but the ticking clock.
After a long silence, I sweep up the glass and toss our "happy" photo in the trash, along with what's left of my feelings.
Chapter 3
That evening, I have our chef prepare a whole spread and wait for Jaxon.
Everything's perfect—his favorites, mine, even opened a nice bottle of wine.
Ten years together, five married.
If we're doing this, we're doing it with class.
While I'm waiting at the table, my phone rings.
It's my mentor from the overseas deal—also my old mentor.
His voice is warm, amused:
"Stella, about my offer to join DM—have you given it more thought?"
"Reed Industries is too small-time for someone with your talent."
The recognition feels good.
But I smile and decline:
"Thanks, but I'll pass. London headquarters means awful weather year-round."
Obviously a bullshit excuse.
Truth is, the next year's gonna be all about divorce proceedings, recovering my health, and some serious self-care.
Job hunting can wait.
He hears right through my deflection but doesn't push. After some small talk, he drops this cryptic line and hangs up.
...
Check my phone to find Paisley specifically tagged me in her latest post:
[Thanks for making my dreams come true, big brother! Taking you out for a fancy dinner tomorrow as payback~]
The photo? Paisley holding Jaxon's hand at the actual Eiffel Tower.
Identical to the one I just trashed.
How pathetically obvious.
I calmly hit 'like.'
Then get a text from Jaxon:
[Emergency business trip overseas. Won't be back for a couple days.]
[Got a surprise waiting when I return.]
He must've grabbed his passport earlier.
I close my phone, done with this lying piece of shit.
Pour myself some soup and enjoy dinner alone.
The Eiffel Tower really was my dream destination.
Too broke before, too busy after, kept putting it off.
Even when I was working nearby on this last trip, I held back.
Figured it'd mean more with Jaxon.
Well, whatever.
Long as he signs those divorce papers, I don't give a damn where he goes or who he screws.
