Chapter 1: The Transition Plan

My fiancé was moving to Boston with my best friend, and he had kindly arranged for me to spend the rest of my life in Iowa, taking care of his father.

The moving party wasn’t even over before I confirmed my spot at a school in another city.

Just a few minutes earlier, I had seen the two moving boxes.

One was packed with my things. Destination: his father’s house.

The other held their things. Destination: Boston.

I’d asked him what it meant.

He said Boston rent was too expensive, and someone like me—“someone who needs stability”—would only fall apart there.

As for taking care of his father, it was just a transition that worked out for everyone.

My best friend stood nearby, the spare key to their new apartment in her hand, confidently describing the layout.

He didn’t explain their relationship. Instead, he blamed me for ruining the mood with my expression.

When my best friend moved closer, he pulled her behind him, a protective arm shielding her.

“Don’t be so emotional.”

That was when I finally understood.

He wasn’t discussing our future.

He was informing me of my next assignment, and who I was expected to sacrifice for.

But he had miscalculated one thing.

A person who’s used to having her life arranged for her can still, suddenly, refuse to obey.

I tapped Confirm Enrollment and glanced toward the closed bedroom door.

Outside, they were still celebrating, convinced their plan had worked.

What they didn’t know was that I was never going to Iowa.

…

For years, I had told myself Grant was just too busy.

When he got his first promotion, I paused my studies and took over all the chores so he could work late without a second thought.

When his project failed, I stayed up all night helping him revise the proposal.

When his father needed care after surgery, I was the one who took a leave of absence and rushed to Iowa—buying groceries, picking up prescriptions, driving him to follow-up appointments.

Later, when I brought up going back to school, Grant frowned and said the tuition and time weren’t worth the cost.

“Let’s talk about it again when my career is more stable.”

But he had time to revise Tessa’s résumé seven times, run mock interviews with her, and personally call his Boston contacts to get her a referral.

I had asked him why her career always seemed to matter more than mine.

Grant had said, “If Tessa does well, it helps us get into the right circles, too.”

When I didn’t respond, he added, “Claire, don’t make a big deal out of little things.”

Laughter drifted in from the other room.

I stared at the enrollment confirmation on my phone, took a deep breath, and pushed the door open to rejoin the party.

Tessa was leaning against the dining table. The moment she saw me, she handed me a glass of wine.

“I knew you’d come around.”

She smiled gently, the same way she always did when she stepped in to smooth things over for Grant.

“You’ve always been the one who sees the big picture.”

For a second, I almost wavered.

Maybe this was just a clumsy arrangement.

Maybe Grant really did think Iowa was a better fit for me.

After all, they were the two people I trusted most in the world.

Grant walked over and draped an arm around my shoulders.

The gesture was so familiar that my body relaxed on instinct.

“I know this is hard to accept,” he murmured, his voice soothing.

“But it’s for our long-term future. Once I’m established in Boston, everything will get better.”

I looked up at him. “What about our wedding?”

Grant avoided my eyes and patted my shoulder.

“Don’t get hung up on that right now. Call Dad and let him know you’re coming. He’s been worried these past couple of days that no one would be there to take care of him.”

The last of my hesitation turned to ice.

So that was what his tenderness was for—to make sure I promised his father I would report for duty on time.

“I’m going to the bathroom.”

I set down my wineglass and turned into the hallway.

The door to Grant’s study was ajar, his laptop screen still glowing.

On it was an Excel spreadsheet.

The file was named—

Transition Plan.

I walked over and touched the trackpad.

The first column listed my monthly living expenses in Iowa.

Rent: zero. Household supplies and transportation would be paid from our joint account. Any expense over one hundred dollars required prior approval.

The second column was my care schedule.

Monday: organize medications. Tuesday: shopping. Wednesday: accompany him to physical therapy. Cook every day. Clean on weekends. Be on call for emergencies.

He had even scheduled how often I would be allowed to leave.

“Visit Grant: once per quarter, not to exceed three days.”

I kept scrolling.

Under “Marriage Date,” there were only three words.

To be determined.

My hand started shaking so badly I could barely hold it still.

Grant used to say I was kind and selfless—the ideal person to build a family with.

But later, he started talking about “value.”

He said Tessa had a stronger academic background, more ambition, and the ability to get into the circles he wanted.

During one argument, he had even blurted out, “Tessa can actually help my career. What can you do besides take care of people?”

He had apologized afterward.

But it wasn’t until today that I understood. It had never been just a flash of anger.

In his spreadsheet, Tessa was in charge of career and social polish.

I was in charge of his father, the housework, and everything else behind the scenes.

No wedding date. No choice. Not even a salary.

I moved the cursor to the bottom of the sheet and saw a final note.

“Once her boxes are on the way, there’s no turning back. She needs someone to make decisions for her.”

The next second, a message from Tessa popped up in the corner of the screen.

“She doesn’t suspect anything, right? Don’t worry, she always listens to you.”

In the living room, they were still raising glasses to their new life in Boston.

I didn’t storm out and confront them.

I took out my phone, logged into my banking app, and checked my payroll history. Then I transferred every cent of my own savings and earned income out of our joint account and into the personal one I had just opened.

The words TRANSFER SUCCESSFUL lit up the screen.