Eliza Dunlap POV:

I didn't wait up for him. The days of me sitting by the window, watching the driveway for the sweep of his headlights, were over. That version of Eliza Dunlap had died in the hallway outside his office.

The house was dark and silent, a cavernous space that once felt like a sanctuary but now felt like a beautifully decorated tomb. I lay in our king-sized bed, the space beside me cold and empty, and stared at the ceiling.

It was past two in the morning when my phone buzzed on the nightstand. Atticus' s name flashed on the screen. I let it ring, a small, bitter part of me wanting him to feel the sting of being ignored. But on the fourth ring, I gave in and answered.

"Hello?"

It wasn't his voice that replied. It was Isla's.

"Eliza? Hi, it's Isla." Her voice was smooth, laced with a feigned concern that made my skin crawl. "I'm so sorry to call this late."

I sat up, the phone clutched tight in my hand. "Isla? Where's Atticus? Is he okay?"

"Oh, he's fine," she said with a light, dismissive laugh. "A little too fine, actually. He's had a bit too much to drink."

My heart hammered against my ribs. "Where is he?"

"He's here. At my place," she said, letting the words hang in the air for a beat too long. "Don't worry," she added quickly, her tone dripping with false innocence. "The whole team came back here for a nightcap, but everyone else just left. He' s passed out on my sofa. I didn't think it was safe for him to drive, and I didn't want to wake you by having a car drop him off."

Every word was a carefully chosen dart, aimed to wound. She was a master of this game, painting herself as the responsible friend while simultaneously flaunting her intimacy with my husband.

In the crushing silence of the bedroom, I could see her strategy with perfect clarity. This wasn't a courtesy call; it was a power play. A declaration.

"Put him on the phone," I said, my voice cold and steady.

"Oh, I don't know if I can wake him-"

"Put. Him. On. The. Phone. Isla."

There was a moment of silence, then a muffled sound as she moved. I heard her syrupy voice in the background, "Atticus, honey, wake up. Eliza's on the phone."

A few seconds later, his voice came through, thick with sleep and alcohol. "Liza?"

"Where are you, Atticus?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"At Isla's," he slurred. "We... we were celebrating. Big deal closed."

"You couldn't come home?" The question sounded weak, even to my own ears. Pathetic.

"It's loud here," he said, not answering my question. "I don't wanna go home. It's too quiet there. Too... boring."

There it was again. That word. Boring. Was I the reason he found his home boring? Was my quiet, steady presence the source of his profound ennui?

"Do you regret it?" I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it.

"Regret what?" he mumbled, confused.

"Us," I whispered. "Marrying me."

He was silent for a long moment. I could hear the faint sound of music in the background, the clink of a glass. "Don't be silly, Liza," he finally said, his voice a hollow echo of the man I married. It wasn't a denial.

Suddenly, the phone was snatched away. Isla was back on the line, her voice a sharp contrast to his drunken haze. "He's really out of it, Eliza. I think it's best he just stays here."

Then, I heard her say something away from the phone, a playful, chiding tone in her voice. "Atticus, behave! You're tickling me."

I heard his laugh in response, a low rumble that was suddenly sharp and sober. Far too sober for a man who was supposedly "passed out."

"Give Eliza my love," he said, his voice clear and teasing. "Tell her not to worry. After all, you were my fiancée first. You know how to take care of me."

The line went dead in my ears, but his words continued to reverberate in my mind. You were my fiancée first.

It was a piece of history I hadn't learned until after our wedding. A small, significant detail the Monroe family had conveniently omitted. Atticus and Isla, products of two powerful, old-money families, had been engaged. It was an arranged match, a merger of dynasties.

Then he met me. The promising young architect from a middle-class background. He' d told me he fell in love with my passion, my independence, my "realness." He had called off his engagement to Isla, defied his family, and married me in a whirlwind romance that felt like a fairytale.

He had loved me then. I knew he had. His eyes used to follow me around a room, filled with a light that I now realized had been extinguished for a long, long time.

Three years. That' s how long it took for the fairytale to curdle. That's how long it took for his grand romantic gesture of defiance to become a burden. He hadn't just chosen me; he had rejected her, and now, it seemed, he was spending every moment trying to undo that decision. The quiet, predictable life he'd claimed to want with me had become the cage he was desperate to escape. And Isla was holding the key.

Eliza Dunlap POV:

He didn' t come home the next day. Or the night after that. When Atticus finally walked through the door on the third evening, I was sitting at the dining table, staring at a plate of food I had no appetite for.

In the early days of our marriage, after our first real fight, he had come home with a ridiculously large bouquet of my favorite peonies and a small, velvet box containing a diamond bracelet. It was his way of saying sorry, a grand gesture to smooth over the cracks.

Tonight, he came home empty-handed.

"Hey," he said, his voice flat as he shrugged off his jacket. He didn't look at me.

He sat down opposite me and picked up his fork, prodding at the seared salmon on his plate. The silence was thick with unspoken accusations.

"What is this?" he asked, his brow furrowed in distaste. "The fish is dry."

I stared at him, my own fork frozen midway to my mouth.

"Three years, Eliza," he said, his voice rising with a sudden, disproportionate anger. "You' ve been doing this for three years. Is it too much to ask for a decent meal?"

His anger was a confusing, jarring thing. It felt unearned, misplaced. I hadn't seen him for two days, he'd spent at least one night at his ex-fiancée's apartment, and he was yelling at me about dry fish. It was then I knew. This wasn't about the salmon. This was the turning point. The moment the unspoken resentment finally boiled over into open hostility.

Our housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, a kind woman who had been with his family for decades, scurried out from the kitchen, her face etched with worry.

"Mr. Monroe, sir, I'm so sorry," she said, wringing her hands. "It's my fault. Mrs. Monroe wasn't feeling well today, so I prepared the dinner. I must have overcooked it."

Atticus' s head snapped up, his gaze finally landing on me. For the first time, he seemed to actually see me, taking in my pale face and the dark circles under my eyes. A flicker of something-guilt, perhaps-crossed his features before being quickly suppressed. He was speechless.

He waved a dismissive hand. "It's fine. We'll just make do," he muttered, his anger deflating as quickly as it had appeared.

But he didn't apologize. Not for yelling, not for his false accusation, and certainly not for the past two nights.

I deliberately placed my fork and knife down on my plate with a soft clatter. The sound was quiet, but in the tense silence of the room, it was as loud as a gunshot.

He looked up, his eyes wary.

"Atticus," I said, my voice even and calm. "Do you hate me?"

His head gave a slight, almost imperceptible tremor. His gaze was unreadable, a carefully constructed mask of neutrality. "Don't be dramatic, Eliza."

"Then what is it?" I pressed. "You're angry, but I don't know why. Tell me."

"I just had a long day," he said, pushing his food around his plate. He sighed, leaning back in his chair and running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. It was his classic move, the gesture he used when he was trying to appear reasonable and patient in the face of what he considered my emotionality. "I apologized for raising my voice. I expect you to manage the household. That includes the kitchen. It' s not too much to ask."

I stared into his eyes, searching for a trace of the man I had married, the man who had looked at me with such adoration. I found nothing. Only a cold, weary impatience.

"I am not your housekeeper," I said, the words tasting like freedom on my tongue. "And I am not your personal chef. If you don't like the food, you can find someone else to cook it. From now on, I'm done."

I pushed my chair back and stood up.

"And for the record," I added, my voice hardening, "if you prefer the 'simple things,' I'm sure Isla would be more than happy to order you a pizza. Or maybe she could cook for you herself."

The color drained from his face. He shot to his feet, his chair scraping loudly against the polished floor. "What does Isla have to do with this?" he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous growl.

"Everything," I said simply.

"You're being unreasonable, Eliza," he snapped, his composure finally cracking. "Stop bringing her into every conversation!" He slammed his hand down on the table, making the silverware jump. "This is exactly what I mean! This drama! I can't deal with this!"

He turned and stormed out of the dining room, leaving me standing alone in the deafening silence, the smell of the dry, unwanted salmon hanging in the air like a funeral wreath for our marriage.

Eliza Dunlap POV:

That night, for the first time in our three years of marriage, we slept in separate rooms.

I lay in the center of our vast, empty bed, the cool sheets a stark reminder of the space he should have been occupying. I remembered our wedding night, tucked away in a private villa in Santorini. He had held me close and whispered a promise in my ear.

"We will never go to bed angry," he' d said, his voice thick with sincerity. "No matter how big the fight, we solve it. Separate rooms are the beginning of the end. It creates a crack that you can never fully repair."

At the time, his words had felt like the most romantic vow I had ever heard. Now, they were just another broken promise, another piece of the fairytale crumbling to dust.

I turned off the light, plunging the room into a deep, velvety darkness, and resigned myself to a lonely night.

I don't know how long I'd been asleep when I felt a shift in the mattress, a warmth spreading along my back. I tensed, my eyes flying open.

Atticus.

His arm snaked around my waist, pulling me against him. He buried his face in my hair, his warm breath ghosting against my neck.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice a low, pleading murmur. "I was an asshole. Forgive me?"

I didn't answer. I just stared out the window at the sliver of moon hanging in the inky sky. The apology felt hollow, a practiced script he was reciting to restore the peace, to get back to his comfortable, predictable life.

"Why did you come here?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

He tightened his grip. "Because we promised," he said softly. "We don't let things fester. We don't go to bed angry."

He was using our own rules, my own romantic beliefs, as a weapon against me. A single, hot tear escaped and slid down my temple, disappearing into the silk of the pillowcase. It was a tear for the naive girl who had believed those promises so completely.

"I was angry about what happened with Isla," he continued, attempting to explain away his behavior. "She messed up a presentation, and I had to clean up the mess. It put me in a foul mood. I even forgot to pick up the gift I' d ordered for you on the way home."

Another pang, sharp and unwelcome, shot through my chest. A gift. The old Atticus, trying to make a comeback.

"What happened with Isla?" I asked, my voice carefully neutral. I was testing him. Testing myself.

As he started talking about her, a subtle shift occurred. His voice, which had been low and contrite, became more animated. He recounted in detail how she had used the wrong data in a pitch to a major client, how she had cried in his office, how he had spent hours comforting her and fixing her mistake. He was complaining, but underneath the frustration, there was an energy, a vibrancy that was completely absent when he spoke to me.

He was energized by her drama. He thrived on being her hero, her savior.

He must have sensed my silence, because he suddenly stopped. "But that's not your problem," he said, his tone shifting back to cautious and soothing. "I shouldn't have taken it out on you. There's nothing going on between me and Isla, I swear. She's just… a colleague."

I almost laughed. "I understand," I said, a bitter sarcasm coloring my words. "You have to be her knight in shining armor. Meanwhile, I'm just the stable, boring wife waiting at home."

His arm around my waist went rigid. He slowly pulled his hand away, creating a cold space between us.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was our breathing.

Then, he spoke, his voice so low I almost missed it. "Maybe I shouldn't have married you."

It wasn't a question. It was a statement of regret, a quiet admission of the truth I had been avoiding for months. The words hung in the darkness, final and irrevocable. He hadn' t chosen a life with me; he had simply chosen a life without Isla, and he was beginning to realize what a terrible mistake that had been.