"You remember the watch I showed you, right?"
I looked at her.
"I remember."
Her smile widened.
"And?"
"And what?"
"Ethan."
I shrugged.
She laughed.
"You are impossible."
"So I've heard."
"Just give me a hint."
"You'll get something memorable."
Technically not a lie.
She sat beside me.
"You've been acting strange all week."
"I was starting to think you forgot."
"Oh, I didn't forget anything."
She studied me.
"What does that mean?"
"It means I remember the anniversary."
Everything.
The suspicion returned.
Then she dismissed it.
"What time are we leaving?"
"Seven-thirty."
"Reservation at eight?"
"Yes."
"Perfect."
Then:
"You really won't tell me what you got me?"
"No."
"You know I hate waiting."
"Be patient a little longer."
She sighed dramatically.
"Sometimes talking to you is impossible."
That afternoon, I rented a furnished apartment.
Thirty-day lease with an option to extend.
It was fifteen minutes from the house.
One bedroom.
Neutral furniture.
Kitchen stocked with exactly four plates.
The kind of place designed for business travelers and divorcing husbands.
I moved two suitcases there while Rachel was at a salon appointment.
Nothing major.
Clothes.
Laptop.
Toiletries.
Work equipment.
Personal documents.
I did not remove shared furniture.
Did not touch her things.
Did not empty the house.
Daniel had helped me understand exactly how to create space without creating a legal problem.
Then I assembled Rachel's anniversary gift.
Black presentation folder.
Inside:
A copy of the temporary housing agreement.
A written summary of the household bills I intended to continue paying while we determined next steps.
Contact information for Daniel.
A proposed list of financial records we both should gather if we separated formally.
A note stating that I had made no changes to joint savings or shared accounts.
A simple request that neither of us move or dispose of major marital property without discussing it.
Nothing that said divorce was inevitable.
No filed petition.
No ambush contract.
Preparation.
On top, I placed a white sheet.
Two words.
SUBSCRIPTION CANCELED.
I stared at it.
Petty?
Absolutely.
Necessary?
No.
Did I remove it?
No.
That was the five percent Mark had warned about.
Rachel came downstairs at seven twenty-five.
Black dress.
Hair done.
Earrings I had bought her for her thirty-fifth birthday.
She looked incredible.
For the first time all week, she was focused entirely on me.
"You look good."
"So do you."
She smiled.
"See?"
"We can still be nice."
Her eyes dropped toward my hands.
No gift bag.
No watch box.
Disappointment crossed her face before she concealed it.
"Ready?"
"Yeah."
The folder was already in the car.
Maison Verre was exactly what Rachel wanted.
Low lighting.
White tablecloths.
Quiet piano.