Eliza Dunlap POV:
The next evening, my phone buzzed with an Instagram notification. It was a story from Isla. A story that was set to be visible only to me.
She was getting bolder.
I opened it, my heart a steady, rhythmic drum against my ribs. My hand was perfectly still.
The video was shaky, clearly filmed by someone in a group. It showed a circle of people gathered around a crackling bonfire, set against the backdrop of a luxurious campsite. I recognized the faces-the "core team" from Atticus's company, all with their partners. Couples.
Then the camera panned to Atticus and Isla, standing slightly apart from the others. They were the only two without their respective spouses.
Someone off-camera, one of Isla's cousins who worked at the company, shouted, "Hey, Isla, you're so scared of the dark! I guess you and Atticus will have to share a tent tonight!"
A round of knowing laughter rippled through the group.
Isla's brother, standing nearby, watched them with a quiet, knowing smirk. "Atticus, my man," he said, loud enough for the camera to pick up, "you better behave yourself."
Atticus just laughed, a confident, dismissive sound. He didn't deny it. He didn't correct them.
Instead, he turned to the large, two-person tent behind him and decisively pulled back the flap. He looked directly at Isla, his eyes glowing with an intensity in the firelight that I hadn't seen directed at me in years. It was a look of pure, unadulterated desire.
"Come on," he said, his voice a low command. "Get in. I'll stay with you."
The video ended.
I watched it again. And again. Then, I saved it to my phone. I went back to Isla's story and pressed the little heart icon. I liked it. Let her know I'd seen it. Let them both know.
This was it. The final line had been crossed. This was no longer just an emotional affair, a flirtation fueled by boredom and nostalgia. This was a deliberate, public declaration.
Was a marriage without trust, without respect, without even the basic courtesy of discretion, worth saving?
I stayed up all night, the question turning over and over in my mind. The image of him holding that tent flap open for her was burned into my memory.
By the time the sun began to cast a pale, gray light into the room, my decision was made. It was as clear and solid as a block of granite.
I packed a single suitcase, leaving behind the designer gowns and jewels of Mrs. Atticus Monroe. I packed my own clothes, my sketchbooks, and my laptop.
Then, I drove to the small, sunlit apartment I had bought with my own money before I ever met him. My sanctuary. My escape plan.
It took him two days to notice I was gone.
My phone finally rang on the third day. "Liza? Where are you?" he asked, his voice laced with confusion and a hint of irritation. There was no apology, no explanation for his weekend. Just the expectation that I would be where he had left me.
"I'm not at the house," I said calmly.
"Well, I can see that," he said, his patience already wearing thin. "Stay where you are. I'll come pick you up."
"There's no need," I said. "But if you want to talk, you can come here."
I gave him the address.
Then I sat on my sofa, in my own apartment, surrounded by my own things, and waited for my husband to arrive so I could end our marriage.
