When the business grew, they traded noodles for takeout, then for restaurants that asked you not to take photos because celebrities might be there. Daniel’s eyes brightened when he talked about profit margins and capital, then narrowed when Claire asked about weekends away. He began saying, “This is just a season, Claire. You know how it is.”

She knew. She had been in every season with him.

The lies weren’t fireworks. They were slow mist, the kind that makes you think the road is still clear until your tires start slipping. A lipstick stain on a receipt. A second phone, “for work.” The new habit of turning his body away when he answered a text. She confronted him once, twice, three times. Daniel smiled, then sighed, then frowned.

“It’s not what you think,” he said each time. “We’ve grown apart. I need space to figure things out.”

She gave him space, the way you hand someone an umbrella in case it rains, hoping they’ll still choose to walk beside you.