Ryan Holt and I had been together for eight years. We had met at university, fallen in love, and built a life together in Denver. On the outside, everything appeared perfect. We lived in a beautiful home, and Ryan had a successful career in corporate law. On paper, our life seemed enviable—a perfect couple living the American dream.
But like all things, our marriage started to unravel, slowly at first. Ryan’s late nights at work turned into weekends away. He came home smelling of perfume that wasn’t mine, and his phone rang at all hours of the night. I tried to ignore it. I tried to pretend everything was fine, but deep down, I knew. I couldn’t escape the feeling that something was wrong.
That night, everything came to a head. Ryan came home late again, smelling of someone else’s perfume. I stood there, my hands trembling, holding onto the edge of the kitchen counter, as he tossed his keys onto the marble surface.
“Don’t start,” he muttered.
“I’m not starting anything,” I said softly. “I’m just tired, Ryan.”
