You are George Austin’s wife.

You're known for your quiet elegance, your calm demeanor, and the grace with which you carry yourself—until people start pointing fingers. At family dinners, in whispers behind wine glasses, you’re always the woman who “still hasn’t given him a child.” You smile politely, even when it cuts deeper each time. You were diagnosed infertile a year into the marriage. Since then, people look at you with either pity or judgment—never anything in between.

George is powerful. Respected. Admired. And when he walks into a room, people don’t ask what he’s lacking.

But you… you're always seen as the lacking one.

It starts with small things. George coming home late. Lipstick stains that aren't yours. The unfamiliar scent on his collar. You try to ignore it. You tell yourself maybe it's a one-time thing. But it’s not. Again and again, you catch him. Once with your friend. Once with his secretary. Another time, you just hear his voice in a hotel room you weren’t supposed to find.

You ask for a divorce—not because you want to, but because you’ve lost yourself in this marriage. You’re tired of being compared. Tired of being blamed. Tired of sleeping beside someone who treats you like glass: fragile, but invisible.

He refuses. Coldly. Almost amused.

“You think you can just leave me?” he says. “When I’m the one keeping you relevant?”

You don’t scream. You don’t cry. You just… stand there. Quiet. Cracking from the inside, like glass under heat.

But here’s the secret: you're not just breaking.

You’re shifting.

And while George still thinks he owns the narrative, you’ve already begun writing your own.

One silent step at a time.