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."

Eliza POV:

The silence in the room was absolute. It was so quiet I could hear the hum of the refrigerator, the distant wail of a siren in the city below. Drake stared at me, his angry smirk frozen on his face.

"What did you just say?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. He looked like he was the one who had been slapped.

"I said okay," I repeated, my voice steady. "Let' s get a divorce." I walked over to the bookshelf where I kept my files. "I already have the papers drawn up."

His face went from shocked to furious in a split second. "You think you can play games with me?" he roared. "You think this is some kind of tactic? A little reverse psychology to get my attention?"

He laughed, but it was a brittle, desperate sound. "Fine. You want to play? Let' s play." He grabbed his keys and stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door so hard a picture frame rattled on the wall.

He didn' t come home that night, or the next. I knew his routine. He was trying to punish me, to make me panic and come crawling back, begging for forgiveness.

On the third day, Mark called me. "Eliza, Drake' s at a bar downtown. He' s completely wasted. Can you come get him?"

"No," I said calmly. "You can get him, Mark. Or you can call Kandace. I' m sure she' d be happy to." I hung up.

He came home the next day, sullen and hungover. He sat on the couch next to me while I watched TV, radiating a cold fury. He stayed home every night that week, a silent, brooding presence in the apartment. His way of showing me he could be a good husband, if he chose to be.

Then the flowers started. A massive bouquet of roses delivered to my office every single day for a week. The old Eliza would have posted a picture on Instagram with a gushing caption, broadcasting to the world that her husband loved her. Drake kept checking his phone, refreshing his feed, waiting for the public validation that never came.

It was as if the word "divorce" had never been spoken. He was trying to erase it, to pretend it was just another one of my hysterical outbursts. Jolene had advised me to wait, to let him show his true colors. So I waited.

A week later, Julian, my old college friend from the brewery, invited me out for his birthday. I was chatting with him at the bar when a hand clamped down on my shoulder. It was Drake.

"There you are," he said, a wide, triumphant smile on his face. "I' ve been looking for you."

He dragged me into a private karaoke room where his friends and Kandace were gathered. Kandace shot me a look of pure venom.

"Eliza, I was just telling everyone how you' re too shy for karaoke," she said, her voice dripping with faux concern. "Drake told me you hate being the center of attention."

My eyes landed on the jacket she was wearing. It was a limited edition designer piece, one Drake had given me for our fifth anniversary. He' d told me a month ago he' d lost it at the dry cleaner' s. When I' d pressed him about it, he' d exploded, calling me materialistic and ungrateful.

Drake pulled me towards his friends, his arm tight around my waist. "My wife, everyone," he announced proudly. They all chuckled and made jokes about him being whipped. He beamed, soaking in the performance of being a devoted husband.

Someone shoved a microphone into my hand. "Come on, Drake, sing a duet with your lovely wife!"

Kandace stepped forward, draping my lost anniversary jacket over my shoulders. "You look a little cold, Eliza. Here."

Drake' s hand on my waist tightened. "It' s Kandace' s," he whispered frantically in my ear. "She bought it herself. It' s just a coincidence."

I ignored him, my eyes on my phone as I replied to a text from Julian.

"It' s just a jacket," I said, my voice loud enough for everyone to hear. I took it off and handed it to Kandace. "It suits you. You can have it."

I then handed her the microphone. "I have to go. You sing with him."

Kandace grabbed my arm as I turned to leave. "Wait, Eliza. You' re misunderstanding." Her eyes were wide and pleading, a perfect imitation of innocence. As she moved, her sleeve rode up, revealing a small, intricate tattoo on her wrist. A stylized wave, breaking over a crescent moon.

I froze.

Drake had the exact same tattoo on his chest, right over his heart.

My gaze lifted from her wrist to his face. His eyes were wide with panic. He knew I' d seen it. He knew I understood.

I took a step back. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, I took his hand. I took Kandace' s hand. I placed them together, one on top of the other, like a priest joining a couple in matrimony.

I smiled, a wide, genuine smile.

"Congratulations," I said, my voice ringing with a sincerity that chilled the room. "You two make a perfect couple. I wish you all the best."

I turned and walked out of the room, leaving a stunned silence in my wake.

Drake scrambled after me, catching me by the elevator. His face was pale, his hands shaking. "Eliza, no, it' s not what you think. The tattoo was just a stupid dare. It means nothing. I' ll have it removed, I swear."

He was begging now, his voice cracking. People in the hallway were starting to stare.

"I believe you, Drake," I said, my voice soft. And I did. I believed that he would do anything, say anything, to keep his perfect life intact.

"We can talk about this at home," I said, patting his arm. "After your party is over."

It was the same dismissive line he had used on me a hundred times. The look of shock and hurt in his eyes was almost satisfying.

I stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the ground floor. The doors slid shut, and I didn' t look back.

My phone buzzed relentlessly. Texts from him.

"Are you home?"

"I' m waiting for you."

"Don' t drink. I bought you that stomach medicine you like."

Then a call. I answered. His voice was soft, pleading. "Let me come get you."

"No need," I said brightly. "Julian is giving me a ride."

"You' re kidding, right?" he spat, his jealousy flaring.

I switched the phone to speaker. "Julian, can you say hi to my husband?"

Julian' s calm, deep voice filled the car. "Hello, Drake."

I heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line, then a string of choked, furious curses.

I hung up. And for the first time in eight years, I didn' t go home. I went to Jolene' s.