1 It took a failed suicide attempt and a bottle of Xanax for me to realize I was nothing more than a supporting character in a romance novel.

The man I’d just tried to die for was my husband, Grant Weston.

He was my first love, my high school crush, the boy I had defied my wealthy parents to marry back when he was just a brilliant, penniless coder with a dream.

Now, he was the golden boy of the tech world, a billionaire mogul who had once promised me a display of fireworks for my birthday that would light up the entire New York skyline.

I waited for those fireworks. I waited until the sparklers went out and the champagne turned flat. But the sky stayed dark.

The only thing that arrived that night wasn't a celebration—it was the news that his "one who got away" had finally come home. "Do you really think a few pills are going to stop this divorce?" Grant stood at the foot of my hospital bed, his silhouette sharp and cold against the sterile white walls.

His voice held no pity, only a weary, jagged edge of resentment. "Grant? What are you talking about?" My head felt like it had been stuffed with wet wool.

I tried to reach up to rub my temples, but the tug of an IV line in my wrist jerked me back to reality. Two hours ago, he had walked into our penthouse and told me he wanted out.

I had spiraled, lost in a blur of grief, and emptied a prescription bottle before the world went black.

I reached out, my fingers trembling as I caught the sleeve of his designer suit. It was an instinctual, pathetic plea. "Please, don't joke like that.

The fireworks... you said we were going to watch the fireworks tonight." His eyes flickered—a brief, microscopic shadow of something like guilt—but it vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a wall of ice. "Don't you get it, Audrey?

Seraphina is back. She’s always been the only one. It was always her." My heart did a sickening drop. My pulse thudded in my ears, a frantic, rhythmic panic. "Seraphina?

She’s been in London for years. Why now? Why does it matter?" Grant looked at me, his expression flat. "She didn't leave because she didn't love me.

She left because my mother paid her off—a hundred thousand dollars to cover her family’s medical debts. It was a misunderstanding, Audrey.

A cruel, decadeslong mistake." The room seemed to tilt. "And what about us? Why did you propose to me? Why did you spend three years building a life with me if—" "I was young.

I was confused," he said, his voice dropping to a low, steady drone. "I thought marriage was a partnership, a sensible arrangement. But Seraphina... she’s the soul.

Thank you for helping me realize that I can’t settle for anything less than her." It felt like a physical blow to the chest.

As I lay there, fragments of a strange, haunting memory began to stitch themselves together in my mind—not memories of my life, but plot points.

I saw the narrative arc laid out like a blueprint. Grant Weston, the misunderstood hero. Seraphina Rossi, the tragic, beautiful first love. And me?

I was Audrey Hale, the "placeholder wife." The woman the readers were supposed to dislike for standing in the way of true love.

The "filler" character used to build the hero’s wealth before he discarded her. Every word Grant had just spoken was a line from a script I hadn't known I was following.

In the "book," I was supposed to scream. I was supposed to call our parents, throw a tantrum, and refuse to sign the papers.

I was supposed to spend the next three years clinging to the wreckage of our marriage until Grant eventually dismantled my father’s company, stripped me of my dignity, and threw me out into the street as a laughingstock of the Upper East Side.

Am I really just a footnote in her story? "Just tell me," Grant said, stepping closer, leaning over the bed until his shadow eclipsed me. "What is it going to take for you to sign?

Money? Property?

Just name the price so we can end this." I shrank back, my voice a thin, shaky thread. "And if... if I say no?" He frowned, his jaw tightening, but before he could answer, his phone chimed.

He checked the screen, and his entire demeanor shifted. The ice melted instantly into a terrifyingly soft warmth. "Seraphina?

What’s wrong?" I could hear her voice through the receiver—a soft, melodic trill, laced with practiced vulnerability. "Grant? The gallery opening is starting soon.

I’m getting nervous. Where are you?" "I'm on my way," he said, his eyes darting to me with a flash of impatience. "There was a minor complication.

I’ll be there in twenty minutes." He hung up and looked at me one last time, his voice stripped of all emotion. "You have three days, Audrey.

Give me an answer that doesn't waste any more of my time." He turned and walked out without looking back.

I stared at the empty doorway, a cold, hollow ache spreading through my ribs. Only a month ago, we were celebrating his company’s IPO.

He had held my hand, looked me in the eye, and told me he’d never seen anything as beautiful as me. He’d seemed so sincere.

How does a man go from that to looking at you like you’re a stain on his carpet? It wasn't possible. He loved me. He had to. This had to be some terrible, temporary fever dream.

With trembling hands, I ripped the IV from my arm. I ignored the sting of blood and the dizziness in my head. I had to see them.

I had to know if the "script" was real. 2 The art gallery was a hive of New York’s elite, smelling of expensive perfume and pretension.

I found them in a quiet corner, tucked away behind a large abstract canvas.

Grant’s arm was draped protectively around a woman whose frame was so delicate she looked as if she might shatter under a heavy gaze. Seraphina Rossi.

Ten years ago, I was the naive girl who believed love was something you could earn through sheer endurance.

When Grant mentioned he admired women with an "artistic soul," I dropped my business major and enrolled in Fine Arts.

I spent years perfecting a version of myself that I thought he wanted. I remembered the first time he asked for my help back in college for a charity gala.

I had stayed up all night organizing it, bringing along my younger classmates to staff the event. That was the night he met Seraphina. I thought their breakup years ago was the end.

I didn't realize she was a ghost that had been haunting my hallways for three years. Grant noticed me first. His face darkened.

He shifted, subtly shielding Seraphina with his body. "What the hell are you doing here, Audrey?" I fought back the hot prickle of tears, forcing my chin up. "My husband is here.

Why wouldn't I be?" Seraphina blinked, her wide, doelike eyes darting between us. "Grant? You... you said the divorce was settled.

You told me the papers were signed." She lowered her head, the picture of a wounded angel. "It’s being handled," Grant murmured, squeezing her shoulder.

He turned back to me, his voice a low hiss. "Audrey, stop this. You’re making a scene.

You’re embarrassing yourself." Seraphina stepped forward, her voice a soft, sugary whisper. "Audrey, I’m so sorry. Truly.

But you can't force a heart to stay where it doesn't belong. Please... for everyone's sake, just let him go." Let him go?

In the original plot, this was where I was supposed to break.

This was where I would spend three years begging for scraps of his affection, only to end up on my knees on a snowy Christmas Eve, pleading with him not to bankrupt my family's firm while he stayed inside a warm penthouse with her.

The memory of that unwritten future sent a shiver of pure, cold terror through my spine. Maybe it was time to stop fighting the inevitable. "Fine.

If that’s what you want... then let’s divorce." The words were right there, on the tip of my tongue. But as I opened my mouth, my throat seized.

It felt like an invisible hand was squeezing my windpipe. "Grant..." I heard my own voice, but it wasn't saying what I wanted. It was high, desperate, and clingy. "Grant, please.

Are we really just... over? Can't we go back to how it was?" I froze. My own mind was screaming No! Stop! but my body was reciting the script.

I was a puppet, and the strings were being pulled by a narrative I couldn't control. Grant rolled his eyes, the last of his patience snapping. "Is this a joke to you?

You won't sign the papers, you show up here to harass us—do you have any dignity left at all?" His voice carried.

People were starting to turn, their whispers cutting through the air like glass. "No, that’s not it—" I shook my head, trying to fight the invisible force in my throat. "I’m not trying to cause a scene, I just—" "You just can't let go," he interrupted, his lip curling in a sneer of pure disgust. "Grant, wait!" I reached out, grabbing his forearm, my mind screaming for me to tell him that we were in a story, that none of this was right.

He didn't wait. He snarled and wrenched his arm away with such force that I lost my balance. I stumbled back, my heels skidding on the polished floor.

My shoulder slammed into a display wall, and I collapsed onto the ground in a heap of silk and shame. The gallery went silent for a heartbeat.

Then, the murmurs began. "Is that the wife? How pathetic." "She looks like a mess.

No wonder he’s leaving her." "Some women just don't know when they've been replaced." Seraphina tugged at Grant's sleeve, her voice trembling. "Grant, let’s just go. Please.

I can't be here for this." Grant gave me one final, loathing look. "Don't follow us, Audrey.

I’m done being patient." I sat on the floor, watching the man I had loved for a decade walk away with another woman. I wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn't come.

There was only a vast, echoing numbness. Pain, when it goes deep enough, eventually turns into a kind of hollow silence. 3 I don’t remember leaving the gallery.

For the next three days, I tried to fight the script.

I went to my mother, intending to tell her I was leaving Grant, but when I opened my mouth, the words came out as: "Mom, I can't lose him.

You have to help me keep him..." I called my best friend, Gia, wanting to tell her I was done, but instead, I sobbed into the phone: "I still love him.

I can't let her win." I was a prisoner in my own skin, watching myself play the part of the hysterical, jilted wife. I was terrified.

Was I doomed to follow this path until I hit rock bottom? On the third day, I drove to Grant's office at Weston Tech. My chest felt like it was being squeezed by a vice.

I had to end this. I had to find a way to say the words. As I approached his private suite, I heard a sound that made my blood run cold.

It was a low, muffled moan—a sound of stifled, breathless passion. I froze at the door. Every instinct told me to turn around, but the script pushed me forward. My hand reached out.

My thumb pressed against the biometric scanner. The door hissed open. The sight inside shattered whatever was left of my heart.

Grant was in his executive chair, and Seraphina was draped across his lap, her silk dress pushed up high.

His hands were buried in her hair, his mouth pressed feverishly against the hollow of her throat. In three years of marriage, I had never seen him lose control like this.

With me, he was always composed, always "sensible." With her, he was a man possessed. This wasn't in the book.

The book said they were "soulmates," but it never described this blatant, daylight infidelity in the middle of a corporate office. Seraphina saw me first.

She let out a small, performative gasp and buried her face in Grant's chest, pulling her bodice up as if she were a startled rabbit. Grant looked up.

When he saw me, his expression shifted from shock to a blinding, incandescent rage. "Have you lost your mind?" He stood up, shielding Seraphina behind him. "This is a place of business!

Bursting in here like a lunatic—who do you think you are?" I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Who do I think I am? I'm your wife!

You’re having sex with her in your office, and I'm the lunatic?" Seraphina touched his arm, her voice a fragile whisper. "Grant, don't be angry with her.

She’s just... she’s hurting. I should go." She adjusted her clothes, making sure I saw the fresh, dark bruises of his affection on her skin. Something inside me snapped.

It wasn't the script. It wasn't the "supporting character." It was me. The real Audrey Hale. I didn't think.

I lunged forward and swung my hand with every ounce of strength I had left. The sound echoed like a gunshot. The air in the room turned to lead.

The next second, Grant’s face twisted into something demonic. In a blur of motion, he grabbed a heavy glass carafe from his desk and hurled it at me.

The glass exploded against my forehead. The force sent me reeling backward until I hit the floor. A hot, thick liquid began to crawl down my face.

I reached up, my fingers coming away drenched in crimson. My head throbbed with a rhythmic, sickening heat. He had actually hit me. Grant didn't even look at the wound.

He was already leaning down, cradling Seraphina. "Are you okay? Did she hurt you?" His voice was cooing, desperate, as if she were the one bleeding on the carpet.

She sobbed into his chest, shaking her head. "Audrey Hale!" Grant barked, turning his head to glare at me, his eyes bloodshot. "I told you I wanted a divorce!

You’re the one clinging like a parasite, and now you’re getting violent? You are unstable!" I stared at him, my vision blurring. Unstable? Parasite?

Was that what ten years of devotion got me? I looked at him—really looked at him—and the pedestal I had built for him for a decade finally crumbled into dust.

The humiliation and the physical pain merged into a singular, sharp point of clarity. The "script" in my head shivered. The gears of fate groaned and shifted.

I gritted my teeth, the taste of copper filling my mouth. I pushed myself up from the floor, bone by painful bone, until I was standing.

I looked him dead in the eye, and for the first time in three days, my voice belonged entirely to me. "Grant Weston," I said, my voice as cold as a grave. "Let’s divorce.

Now." His entire body went rigid. His expression went blank, the rage replaced by a sudden, jarring silence.