not as the owner, but as a quiet patron. Dressed in a simple cream silk blouse and tailored trousers, I was here to celebrate our most successful opening month yet, to savor the quiet triumph and the fruits of my labor. The soft clinking of silverware, the murmur of hushed conversations, and the scent of truffle oil and ambition—this was the symphony I had composed.

And then, my past walked in, a discordant note in my perfect melody.

Mark, the husband who had left me after twenty years of marriage for a younger model, entered on the