When Greta is told to serve dinner and disappear during her husband’s big work meeting, something inside her shifts. After twelve years of silence, she’s ready to reclaim her voice—one carefully timed sentence at a time.The night before, Rett walked in, yanking off his tie like it had insulted him. “Greta, you didn’t forget about tomorrow, did you? Just set the table, serve the food, and stay in our room. This is business.”
I stood at the sink, staring at my reflection. For years I had sacrificed for him—my design studio, my hometown, even my voice. I had become furniture, useful but unseen. What Rett didn’t know was that I had been freelancing again. Quietly. Successfully. And one of my clients? Sheila—his boss’s wife.The next night, the house was perfect.
The guests arrived, elegant and expectant. Rett didn’t introduce me, only waved as though I were part of the décor. I smiled, served, and waited. Halfway through dinner, Sheila studied me. “You look familiar.” I set down the dessert tray, rested a hand on her chair. “It was an honor working on your brand,” I said.Her face lit up. “Greta? My God—you’re brilliant! Investors keep reaching out since your redesign.” The table went still.
Michael raised an eyebrow. Rett froze mid-sip. For a delicious moment, silence reigned.Later, when the guests left, Rett snapped. “You embarrassed me! You hijacked everything!” I turned, calm and steady.“No. It’s survival. You drain the life out of me. This isn’t a rough patch—it’s a pattern. And I’m breaking it.”From the drawer, I pulled the envelope. Signed. Sealed. Divorce. Six weeks later, I turned his study into my studio. My last message to him was short:“If you treat your wife like wallpaper, don’t be shocked when she peels herself off the wall. Enjoy your life, Rett.” He never replied. And I didn’t need him to.
