Wife on Strike! Beg Harder, Mr. Billionaire!

My third wedding anniversary started with a phone call that almost made me throw my expensive, diamond-studded phone straight at the bedroom wall.

The woman on the other line was from a super fancy jewelry shop downtown. She spoke in that sweet, fake-polite voice people use when they want to sound rich.

"Good morning, Mrs. Blackwood! We are just calling to confirm the special anniversary delivery arranged by Mr. Nathaniel Blackwood's office."

For one second, just one tiny, stupid second, my heart did a happy little flip. I actually thought my husband had planned something romantic all by himself. No reminders, no sticky notes on his bathroom mirror, no begging. Just a real, honest-to-goodness husband surprising his wife.

Then the woman ruined it.

"We are so excited to celebrate your ten wonderful years of marriage! And the diamond bracelet engraved with the initials R and E is going to look stunning."

My smile froze.

"Ten years?" I blinked, looking around my giant, empty bedroom. "We have been married for three years, not ten. And whose initials are R and E?"

There was a loud gasp on the other end. Papers shuffled. The woman sounded like she swallowed her own tongue.

"Oh! Oh, my goodness! I am so sorry, Mrs. Blackwood! That order is for Richard and Eleanor Blackwood! Your husband's parents! Their fortieth anniversary is next week, and his office mixed up the delivery details!"

I let out a loud, awkward laugh that sounded like a dying duck.

"Oh, right. Of course. Silly me. My father-in-law's name is Richard. Go ahead and send his mom the bracelet. I am sure she will love it."

I hung up the phone and fell backward onto the fluffy pillows, staring up at the white ceiling. My own husband had remembered to buy a massive, glittering anniversary gift for his parents, while I was sitting here wondering if he even remembered what month it was. It was so ridiculous I almost wanted to cry, but instead, I just laughed until my stomach hurt.

Ring!

My phone buzzed again. This time it was Oliver, Nathaniel's poor, overworked personal assistant.

"Mrs. Blackwood?" Oliver squeaked.

He always sounded like he was hiding under a desk when he called me.

"Mr. Blackwood asked me to check... would you prefer a diamond necklace or a luxury watch for your anniversary gift?"

I sat straight up.

"Oliver," I said, keeping my voice very sweet and very sharp. "Has Mr. Blackwood also assigned you to come over here and kiss me on the cheek for him? Because if so, you need to brush your teeth first."

Poor Oliver made a choking sound.

"Oh, no, ma'am! Mr. Blackwood just gave me a budget and told me to pick something nice-"

"It is fine, Oliver," I sighed, rubbing my forehead. "Just pick the necklace. Whatever is shiny and keeps him out of trouble."

When the call ended, I walked out into our giant Manhattan penthouse. It was so big and quiet that my footsteps echoed. I walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows and looked down at the tiny yellow cabs crawling through the New York traffic.

Three years ago, Nathaniel wasn't like this. When we first met, he was just a regular guy working hard, but he always made time for me. He used to write me terrible, funny love poems on napkins just to see me snort coffee out of my nose. He would drag me out for midnight ice cream runs in his pajamas and invent silly excuses to leave work early because he claimed going a whole day without kissing me was bad for his health.

I smiled, touching my lips. Back then, I used to dream of opening my own interior design company. I had whole sketchbooks filled with drawings of cozy living rooms and beautiful hotels. But after the wedding, my sketchbooks got pushed to the bottom of the closet. Why? Because I became too busy organizing Nathaniel's life. I bought birthday gifts for his annoying cousins, picked out his suits, planned his business dinners, and made sure his favorite coffee was waiting for him every morning.

My phone buzzed again. This time it was my best friend, Vanessa.

"Sophie!" Vanessa yelled through the speaker before I could even say hello. "Tell me you are not sitting at home baking a cake for a man who is currently drowning in a sea of spreadsheets!"

"I am not baking a cake, Vanessa. I am cooking his favorite beef stew," I defended, crossing my arms. "And Nathaniel works hard. He owns a huge hotel company. He has responsibilities."

"Responsibilities?" Vanessa snorted. "Sophie, you have spent three whole years defending his absence while you quietly throw away your own dreams! When was the last time he took you out on a real date that didn't involve shaking hands with a bunch of boring business people?"

"Tonight," I said firmly, my voice dropping to a stubborn whisper. "Tonight is our anniversary. He promised he would be home early. I can feel it, Ness. If we just have one proper evening together, just the two of us, I can remind him why we fell in love."

Vanessa sighed softly on the other end.

"I hope you are right, sweetie. But don't let him walk all over you again."

After I hung up, I pushed my doubts away. I got to work. I decorated our dining room with dozens of white candles, dimming the lights so the room glowed softly. I set out the steaming bowl of his favorite beef stew and slipped into a tight, gorgeous red dress. It was the exact dress Nathaniel once told me should come with a warning label because it made him completely forget how to behave in public.

At six o'clock, my phone lit up with a text message.

From Nathaniel: Finishing up a quick thing at the office, sweetheart. I promise I will be home before seven. Can't wait to see you in that red dress.

My heart made a happy little leap. Seven o'clock rolled around. Then seven-thirty. Then eight.

The candles started melting down, dripping wax onto the table. The stew grew cold and thick in the ceramic bowl. I sat at the head of the long dining table, staring at the empty chair across from me, listening to the clock tick on the wall.

At 9:47 p.m., Oliver sent a quick, nervous text: So sorry, Mrs. Blackwood, but Mr. Blackwood is still locked in an emergency meeting with the board.

Ten minutes later, the doorbell rang. I rushed to the door, my heels clicking sharply against the wooden floor, thinking he had finally broken free. But it was just a delivery guy handing over a small, velvet-wrapped box. A diamond necklace. Inside was a little card printed from a computer, signed with a neat, typed-out Love, Nathaniel.

He hadn't even written my name with a pen.

My hands shook slightly as I opened the Blackwood family group chat on my phone. My sister-in-law, Isabella, had just posted a fresh picture from the company's evening celebration downtown.

There stood Nathaniel, tall, handsome, and smiling brightly in his expensive suit, holding a crystal glass of champagne while laughing with a group of cheerful executives.

I looked from the glowing screen of my phone down to the cold, untouched dinner sitting right in front of me. The candles flickered weakly, dying out one by one.

A heavy, freezing realization settled deep into my chest. Nathaniel didn't miss our anniversary because something terrible happened. He didn't miss it because he was trapped. He simply found something else, some other meeting, some other deal, some other room full of people, that he thought was worth celebrating more than his own wife.

For the first time in three whole years, the stubborn, silly hope inside my chest snapped. I wasn't angry anymore. I wasn't even sad.

I was just done.