Eliza POV:

Drake came home late the next evening to find me on the sofa, eating Thai food out of a takeout container and watching a mindless reality show. My arm was professionally bandaged, a stark white cylinder against my skin.

"You didn' t make dinner?" he asked, dropping his briefcase by the door. It wasn' t a question; it was an accusation.

He knew my hand was burned. He had texted earlier, a perfunctory "How' s the arm?" to which I hadn' t replied. He had also texted, "Be home at 8. Starving."

"My phone was charging," I said, not looking away from the TV.

He sighed, a long-suffering sound, and then his expression changed. He was holding a small, glossy gift bag from a high-end French cosmetic brand. He held it out to me like an offering.

"Your face cream was almost empty," he said, his voice softer now. He was watching me, his gaze intense, searching for a sign of gratitude, of forgiveness. It was a look that said, See? I pay attention. I' m a good husband.

I finally turned to look at him. His eyes held that familiar, condescending pity he reserved for me when he was feeling generous.

"No, thank you," I said, my voice polite but distant.

He blinked. "What?"

"I don' t like that brand. It' s too expensive."

It was a lie. I loved that brand. But I had seen Kandace' s Instagram story that afternoon: a selfie of her and Drake at the brand' s boutique, her holding up the exact same jar of cream, with the caption, "He spoils me! " This wasn' t a gift for me; it was a duplicate, a convenient afterthought.

My bandaged arm rested on a pillow. My eyes flickered back to the TV, where a woman was throwing a glass of wine in another woman' s face.

Drake moved closer, trying to look at my arm. "Does it hurt?"

I flinched away from his touch, a purely instinctual reaction. My bandaged arm knocked the gift bag from the coffee table. The heavy glass jar inside hit the hardwood floor with a sickening crack. White cream and shards of glass spread across the polished wood.

He stared at the mess, then back at me, his jaw clenching. "Are you serious, Eliza? You' re going to throw a tantrum over a little burn?"

"I' m not angry," I said simply. It was the truth.

"Oh, I get it," he sneered, the kindness evaporating. "You' re giving me the silent treatment. How old are you, twelve? It' s pathetic. You know, for an architect, sometimes you' re just so damn stupid."

The old Eliza would be crying now. Her chest would be tight, her throat raw with unshed sobs. The new Eliza felt a strange sense of detachment, as if she were watching a scene from a movie.

"Think whatever you want, Drake," I said, my voice weary.

I stood up, carefully collected my takeout containers, and threw them in the trash. I walked towards the front door, grabbing my purse.

He followed me, his steps heavy with anger. This was not going according to his script. "Where are you going?"

"Out."

"Out where?" he demanded, blocking my path.

"To see a friend," I lied, pulling my keys from my bag.

The elevator doors slid open. I stepped inside without a backward glance. The doors closed on his face, his expression a mixture of fury and utter bewilderment. He couldn' t comprehend a world where I wasn' t orbiting him, desperate for his attention, his approval, his forgiveness.

He was about to learn.

Eliza POV:

I was at a brewery with Jolene, my best friend and the sharpest family law attorney in the city. My phone buzzed on the table. A text from Drake.

"Where are you?"

I ignored it.

Jolene raised an eyebrow. "You' re not going to answer that? That' s new. He usually has to be on his deathbed to text you first."

"He' ll get mad," I said, taking a sip of my beer. The words felt strange, like a line from a play I no longer had a part in. The fear was gone. For years, the thought of Drake' s anger had been a cold knot in my stomach. Now, it was just a fact, as neutral as the weather.

"Let him," Jolene said, her smile sharp. "It' s about time."

I stayed out late, later than I had in years. I talked and laughed with Jolene and Julian, the brewery owner and an old friend from college, until my cheeks hurt. It felt like breathing again after holding my breath for a long, long time.

When I got home, the apartment was dark except for a sliver of light from under the kitchen door. Drake was standing at the counter, a glass of water in his hand, looking like he' d been waiting up.

He didn' t ask where I' d been. I didn' t offer an explanation. We passed each other in the hallway like two ships in the night, strangers in our own home.

I showered and slid into my side of the bed, the cool sheets a welcome relief. I had just closed my eyes when the mattress dipped beside me. An arm snaked around my waist, pulling me against a hard chest. His lips were at my neck.

It was a familiar routine. It was that time of the month, the small window of opportunity where he would perform his husbandly duties in our silent, ongoing quest for a child we never discussed. He was never affectionate, never tender. It was a transaction.

But tonight, my body rebelled. As he tried to kiss me, my hands flew up, pushing hard against his chest. It was a reflexive, visceral rejection.

The motion was so abrupt it startled both of us. He froze, then switched on the bedside lamp. The harsh light flooded the room. He stared down at me, his eyes narrowed in disbelief.

"What the hell is your problem?" he demanded.

He glanced at the calendar on my nightstand, the one where I tracked my cycle. "It' s the right time," he said, as if that explained everything. As if my body were a machine that should operate on his schedule.

I rolled over, turning my back to him. "I' m tired, Drake."

The words were the same ones I' d used countless times before, a flimsy shield against his unwanted advances. But the tone was different. Before, it was a plea. Tonight, it was a dismissal.

He stared at my back for a long moment. Then, with a curse, he threw back the covers and stormed out of the room. I heard the guest room door slam shut down the hall.

The old Eliza would have lain awake all night, her heart aching, wondering how to fix this, how to win back his favor.

The new Eliza closed her eyes.

And for the first time in years, I slept through the entire night, a deep, dreamless, and profoundly peaceful sleep.

The next morning, I woke up feeling refreshed and clear-headed. He had made breakfast-a peace offering of burnt toast and cold eggs-before leaving for work. I scraped it into the bin.

At the office, I was more focused and productive than I had been in months. I finalized a design proposal that had been languishing on my desk, my mind sharp and unclouded by domestic anxieties.

During my lunch break, I walked into my boss' s office.

"Jolene is a great friend," I said, "but for this, I think it' s better to have someone who isn' t so close to the situation. Do you still have the contact information for that divorce lawyer you used?"

Eliza POV:

My phone rang as I was leaving the office. It was Drake. I let it go to voicemail, but he called back immediately. I answered, bracing myself.

"Did you see the photo?" he asked, his voice tight with a forced casualness.

A group chat with his college friends, which I was still inexplicably a part of, had lit up an hour ago. A picture of Drake and Kandace at a wedding reception over the weekend. They were on the dance floor, pressed close together, her head resting on his chest. They looked like the happy couple.

"Why would I need to see it?" I asked, my voice calm. "I already know."

"Are you angry?" he asked, a hopeful note in his voice. He wanted a fight. A fight was familiar territory.

"Why would I be angry?" I countered.

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. My indifference was derailing him.

"Listen," he said, his tone shifting to commanding. "I' m having dinner with some clients tonight at The Oak Room. Be ready at seven. I' ll pick you up."

He hung up before I could refuse.

At seven sharp, his Tesla pulled up to my office building. When I got in, Kandace was already in the passenger seat. She turned to me, a sickly sweet smile on her face.

"Eliza! Drake said you wouldn' t mind if I tagged along. I hope it' s okay." Her voice was laced with a triumphant condescension.

I gave her a small, tight smile and climbed into the back seat without a word. I was the other woman in my own husband' s car.

During the drive, Drake kept trying to engage me in conversation, his eyes finding mine in the rearview mirror. I gave one-word answers, my attention fixed on my phone.

At the restaurant, one of Drake' s friends, Mark, pulled me aside. "Hey, Eliza. About that photo… Drake feels terrible. It was just a drunken mistake." He was trying to run interference, to smooth things over like he' d done a dozen times before.

"I' m not angry, Mark," I said, looking him in the eye. "In fact, congratulations are in order. You and Sarah are finally married."

He looked stunned. The old Eliza would have made a scene, or at the very least, accepted his flimsy excuses with tearful resignation. This calm, detached Eliza was a stranger to him. He remembered the time I' d cornered him at a Christmas party, calling him out for covering for Drake' s affair with a marketing intern. He' d stammered and fled.

The restaurant manager approached our table. "Mr. Bridges, Ms. Hill. Shall I open the bottle of champagne you have stored with us?"

My gaze flickered from Drake' s panicked face to Kandace' s smug one. So they were regulars here. They had their own bottle.

"Of course," I said brightly, before Drake could speak. "Open all of them. It' s a celebration."

I excused myself to the restroom, walking on steady legs. Drake followed me, grabbing my arm in the hallway.

"Eliza, wait. The champagne, it' s not what you think. It was for a client…"

I waved a dismissive hand, pulling my arm from his grasp. "Drake, I don' t care." I walked into the ladies' room, leaving him standing there, his mouth agape.

When I returned, the party was in full swing. Drake was fending off a toast, putting himself between a drunken client and Kandace, protecting her. "She can' t drink too much," he was saying, his voice firm but gentle. "She has a low tolerance."

A memory, sharp and cold, pierced the fog of my indifference. A dinner, years ago. I was allergic to alcohol, a fact Drake often chose to forget when it was inconvenient. A client kept pushing me to drink, to toast to a new deal. I looked to Drake for help, but he just laughed.

"Don' t be a spoilsport, Eliza. Just drink it. If you have a reaction, I' ll drive you to the ER for a stomach pump."

I drank the wine. The rest of the night was a blur of hives, fever, and crippling stomach cramps. We went to the hospital. A doctor came into the room, her face grim. She told me I had been pregnant. She told me I had miscarried.

When Drake heard the news, he didn' t hold me. He didn' t comfort me. He turned on me, his face contorted with rage.

"You lost it? How could you be so careless? I told you not to go out drinking with your friends!"

He had blamed me. For his mistake. For our loss.

The memory was so vivid it stole the air from my lungs. I looked at him now, gallantly protecting Kandace from a single glass of champagne, and something inside me finally, irrevocably, snapped.

I grabbed my purse from the table and walked out of the restaurant without a word.

He followed me home, of course. He stormed into our apartment, his face thunderous.

"What the hell was that, Eliza? You just walked out! You embarrassed me in front of everyone!"

I didn' t answer. I just stood in the middle of our living room, my purse still clutched in my hand.

He sneered. "What' s the matter now? Are you going to threaten to leave me again?" He laughed, a short, ugly sound. "Fine. Let' s get a divorce."

He' d said it before. The last time was because I' d bought the wrong brand of coffee. I had begged him, sobbing, to take it back. I had promised to be better, to be more careful.

This time, I looked him straight in the eye. My voice was quiet, but it echoed in the silent room.

"Okay."