Chapter 1

The earth shook with a 4.2-magnitude tremor, causing pandemonium. Amid the frenzied crowd, I was knocked down, and in that frightening instant, I lost my grip on the child I was holding. Maxwell, oblivious to my plight, simply took his boss' sister's hand and departed without a word.

Later, I returned to an empty home, feeling numb. A package of unused miniature parasols awaited me—a cruel reminder of a shared past. Without hesitation, I discarded the box and made a long-distance phone call.

"Ms. Grace Fitzgerald, Air New Zealand welcomes you. Please report within 30 days," said the voice on the line, offering a glimmer of hope. As I ended the call, Maxwell entered, shattering my brief moment of clarity.

"Who was on the phone?" he inquired casually.

"No one," I answered, avoiding eye contact. "Just a telemarketer. I ended the call."

"I've repeatedly warned you about clicking random online links. This is why you're always getting spam calls."

He anticipated my usual snappy comeback or excuse, but I offered neither. My silence seemed to catch him off guard, and his tone softened.

"I'm heading to Denver tomorrow evening," he mentioned after a pause.

I responded with a noncommittal hum, neither encouraging nor discouraging.

Without further words, he went to shower.

As we passed, I couldn't help but notice the lipstick marks on his shirt collar, which stung my eyes. I forced myself to look away, feigning ignorance.

I sat at the kitchen counter, sipping chicken broth, using the warm liquid to distract from the coldness in my heart.

When Maxwell emerged from the bathroom, he frowned at me. "Why are you consuming such oily soup?" he asked sharply.

"Grace, where's your work ethic? Do you want to be grounded for weight issues?"

I set down my spoon and met his gaze calmly.

It wasn't until the miscarriage that I realized we had once created life together. The doctor's advice still echoed faintly: Improve your diet, rest well, and you can have children in the future.

But that no longer mattered. What was clear now was that Maxwell and I had no future together.

Unaware of my thoughts, he continued his usual criticism. "So many red dates, longans, and goji berries—it's too sweet and fatty. Don't drink it."

He paused before adding, "Oh, Emily twisted her ankle today. Tomorrow morning, warm up the chicken soup, put it in a thermos, and pack it for me. I'll take it to her for recovery."

I nodded silently, my compliance momentarily silencing him.

As he approached the bedroom door, he suddenly turned back. "By the way, where's your ski jacket? The pink one. Find it and give it to me."

I retrieved the cherry-pink satin down ski jacket he had given me last year from the closet. It was vibrant, delicate, and unworn—I had never used it.

I folded it neatly, placed it in a bag, and handed it to him wordlessly.

Maxwell glanced at me and said, "Don't read too much into it. I noticed you haven't worn it, so I thought you might not like the bright color."

"Emily is only 20, and pink suits her age. Let her have it; it won't go unused. I'll get you a different color later."

"Fine," I replied, my voice devoid of emotion.

He paused, looking slightly puzzled. "Why didn't you help me pack my suitcase today?"

It surprised him. I had always packed for him before every flight, whenever I was home.

Without a word, I opened his suitcase and began packing with practiced efficiency.

"Don't forget my white ski jacket," he reminded me.

"Okay."

Returning to the closet, I found his white ski jacket hanging where the pink one had been. Last year, he had bought the white jacket for himself along with the pink one for me, promising to take me skiing.

We'll go together when we have time, he had said.

But time never aligned. Even when we tried, our schedules rarely matched, and the few times they did, our shared flights carried more distance than connection.