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.
