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.

Eliza Dunlap POV:

He came home one evening without warning, striding into the master bedroom where I was sketching at my new drafting table. He was holding a half-packed suitcase. I hadn't even known he was in the house.

He stopped short when he saw me, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. He hadn' t expected me to be here. He' d clearly come to pack for the "business retreat" with Isla, assuming the house would be empty.

"Eliza," he said, his voice hesitant. He struggled for a moment, his jaw tight. It was clear he was trying to figure out how to navigate this unexpected confrontation.

"The team retreat is this weekend," he said finally, his body tense. "I was wondering… if you' d like to come."

His posture was rigid, his words clipped. He was extending an invitation, but his entire being screamed that he was hoping I'd say no.

I felt a laugh bubble up from my chest, a genuine, unrestrained sound of amusement. The absurdity of it all was just too much.

His tension visibly increased at my laughter. He looked like a man cornered.

A wicked little thought sparked in my mind. For three years, I had been the compliant, understanding wife. It was time for a change.

"I'd love to," I said, my voice bright and cheerful.

Atticus froze. He stared at me, his mouth slightly agape, a look of pure, unadulterated panic in his eyes. He knew I didn't fit into his world of corporate sharks and old-money heirs. He had counted on me to politely decline, to spare him the awkwardness of my presence.

His invitation had been a mere formality, a performance of a husbandly duty he felt obligated to fulfill. He never dreamed I would actually accept.

The panic in his eyes quickly morphed into frustration. He bent down and started pulling clothes out of the suitcase, throwing them back into the closet with jerky, angry movements.

He didn't look at me. He couldn't.

"Actually, something's come up," he said, his voice tight with barely concealed rage. "A last-minute emergency at the office. I can't go anymore."

He straightened up, finally turning to face me. "So, you shouldn't go either." It was an order, not a suggestion.

"Oh," I said simply, my voice devoid of any emotion. I turned back to my drafting table, picked up my glass of water, and took a slow sip.

I heard him hesitate for a moment, waiting for a reaction, for the argument he was clearly spoiling for. When none came, he let out an exasperated sigh and stormed out of the room.

A few minutes later, I heard the sound of his sports car roaring to life in the driveway. I walked to the window just in time to see him tiptoeing down the front steps, carrying his hastily repacked suitcase, before disappearing into the night.

He was still going. He had just needed to get me out of the way.

I remembered how he used to worry that my middle-class manners would embarrass him in front of his friends. Now, it was different. Now, he was afraid I would interrupt the next chapter of his love story with Isla.

I watched the red taillights of his car fade into the distance.

How much longer, Atticus? I thought, a strange sense of calm settling over me. How much longer until you ask for a divorce?

I was ready.