Lauren pulled out a wire wreath frame. She wove chains of greenery through the frame with practiced efficiency. Twist, tuck, secure. She'd made dozens of wreaths over the years.
It was bold. It was bright. It was perfect.
She added pinecones—ones she'd spray-painted gold weeks ago. They gleamed against the evergreen, unapologetic and gorgeous.
Holly berries next. Bright and defiant.
She eyed the wreath critically. It was loud, gaudy, hopelessly overstuffed—and she loved it. Every glittering, glorious inch of it.
She cut a length of ribbon long enough to drape across the wreath like a banner, her scissors slicing through with a satisfying snip. White satin, crisp and clean.
Then she grabbed her stencils and paint.
Her hand was steady as she painted the first letter with bold, even strokes.
Lauren didn’t stop until the final letter. She sat back, looking at the words she'd created. Not whispered, not hidden, not tucked away in a journal somewhere. Painted in bold red across white satin, surrounded by evergreen and gold and all the festive beauty she knew how to create.
I DESERVE BETTER.
The ribbon cut across all that festive greenery and gold pinecones like a slash of truth. Beautiful and brutal. Festive and furious.
Her manifesto. Her declaration of independence.
She looked around the cramped attic space—this room Tom had designed to be out of sight, out of mind. All these supplies, all this creative potential, shoved into the least important corner of the house because what she did here embarrassed him.
Well, she was done putting up with a husband like that.
She deserved better.
CHAPTER 15
Tom
Tom couldn't sleep.
The bed was too soft, the room too quiet, the glow-in-the-dark stars overhead too much of a reminder that this was Lauren's childhood bedroom. That she'd slept here for years, dreaming whatever dreams girls had, before she'd grown up and met him and he'd?—
He rolled onto his side, trying to find a comfortable position.
The quilt she’d made him lay folded at the foot of the bed.
Tom closed his eyes and tried to ignore it.
His phone sat on the nightstand, dark and silent. No texts from Lauren. No missed calls.
His mind wouldn't shut off, kept circling back to the same moments on repeat.
Lauren's face when she'd opened that envelope. The way her smile had just... stopped.
Tom sat up, scrubbing his hands over his face. The room felt stuffy. He reached for the lamp and switched it on. He needed water, or air, or something to stop the thoughts from spinning.
The quilt drew his eye.
Lauren had been so excited when he’d unwrapped it, pointing out every detail, and all he'd been able to think about was how his parents were watching. How much he'd wanted Lauren to just... stop talking. Stop drawing attention to something so clearly homemade, so obviously amateur.
Do you see it? That square there—that's our first date.
Her voice had been so bright.
