Isabella Moore used to believe love was something you proved with patience. That if you stayed gentle long enough, if you kept your voice soft enough, if you tried harder, apologized quicker, smiled through the discomfort, the people you loved would eventually see you—really see you—and stop treating you like a convenient target. When she married David Collins, she thought she was stepping into a shared life, a partnership where two people built a home together. During their courtship, David had seemed attentive and warm, the kind of man who remembered small details and made grand ones feel possible. He held doors, sent thoughtful messages, spoke about “our future” like it was a promise sealed in stone. Isabella let herself believe in that story, because it was easier than imagining that a man could transform the moment the vows were said, the honeymoon photos posted, the suit hung back in the closet. But everything changed the moment they returned from their trip. Not slowly. Not subtly. As if the plane landed and with it, the charm was folded away like a garment meant for special occasions. David’s mother, Margaret, had been polite during the engagement, careful with her smiles, careful with the way she called Isabella “dear” while looking her up and down.