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.

Eliza Dunlap POV:

Our relationship entered a strange, cold war. We were polite, distant strangers sharing a house. The air was thick with unspoken words, a fragile truce held together by routine and the sheer force of inertia.

He started avoiding meals at home altogether. "Working late," he'd text. "Dinner with a client." "Team meeting." The excuses were plentiful and vague.

I stopped cooking for him. I stopped waiting up.

One afternoon, I was cleaning out a storage closet, a task I' d been putting off for months. Tucked away in the back, behind stacks of designer luggage we never used, I found them. Box after box of brand-new, high-end kitchenware. A stand mixer in a chic seafoam green. A set of Japanese knives with polished wooden handles. A pasta maker I had dreamed of owning.

They were all things I had once desperately wanted, things I had sacrificed to buy gifts for him, to contribute to our life together. Seeing them now, gathering dust, felt like looking at a museum of my forgotten self. Each box was a tombstone for a piece of the woman I used to be, the woman who had passions and interests outside of being Mrs. Atticus Monroe.

How had I let myself become this person? This woman whose entire world revolved around a kitchen and a man who no longer wanted her?

I remembered the early days. "Liza, your food is incredible," he'd said, his eyes shining with what I thought was love. "You should quit that stressful architecture job. Just stay home and cook for me. That's all I need."

I remembered his mother, Beatrice, a woman carved from ice, taking me aside before the wedding. "Atticus has a delicate stomach," she'd warned, her eyes scanning my simple dress with disdain. "Your primary responsibility is to ensure he is well-cared for. A man's success starts at home."

I had tried so hard. I knew marrying into the Monroe dynasty would be a challenge. My middle-class background was a constant source of quiet scorn among their circle. So I had thrown myself into the only role they seemed to value: the perfect domestic goddess.

I gave up my drafting table, my site visits, my dream of designing buildings that would touch the sky.

I learned his favorite dishes, his coffee preferences, the exact way he liked his shirts ironed. I managed a staff of ten with quiet efficiency. I planned his dinner parties, charmed his business partners, and became an extension of his perfect, curated image.

And in the end, all my efforts earned me was a single, dismissive comment from his new favorite person: "Your fancy cooking can be a bit… much."

My only skill, the one thing I was supposedly good for, was now a source of irritation.

A switch flipped inside me. A quiet, definitive click. No more.

I started with the kitchenware. I didn't sell it. I didn't donate it. I dragged every single box out to the curb and left it for the trash collectors. It was a purge. A cleansing.

Then, I went online. I filled virtual shopping carts with clothes I hadn't allowed myself to buy in years. Sleek, tailored dresses. Sharp blazers. High heels that made me feel powerful.

When they arrived, I spent an entire afternoon trying everything on. I put on makeup, not the subtle, "natural" look his mother approved of, but a bold red lip and a sharp, winged eyeliner. I took selfies, dozens of them, rediscovering the angles of my own face, a face I hadn't truly looked at in years.

I logged into my long-dormant Instagram account, the one I used to use for my architectural portfolio. I posted a picture of myself, smiling, wearing a vibrant yellow dress, the city skyline behind me. The caption was simple: "Reclaiming my love. #Architecture #Design #NewBeginnings."

I threw myself back into my work. I pulled out my old sketchbooks, my forgotten projects. The passion I thought was dead was merely dormant. It came rushing back, filling the empty spaces inside me that Atticus's indifference had carved out.

I no longer cared if he came home.

I no longer cared who he was with.

I no longer cared when he would finally get tired of me completely.

Because I was already gone. I had detached, piece by piece, until all that was left was a ghost in his house. I was just waiting for him to notice.