He was the one who invited me on the autumn outing, yet I spent the whole time fretting over his mother's meal plan.
He was the one chatting and laughing with his coworkers, while I stood awkwardly to the side, unable to get a word in.
"Narelle, why do you have to be so boring?"
After his colleagues left, he asked me that, his face completely blank.
I didn't bother responding. My mind was already calculating how many extra shifts I'd need to pick up that month just to keep this household afloat.
By the time I finally understood, we'd already drifted too far apart.
He blamed me for becoming dull and uninteresting. But he'd conveniently forgotten that I was the one playing nursemaid and squeezing in side jobs—all so he could enjoy his carefree life.
People streamed past on the street, shooting me strange looks.
I laughed bitterly. I must have looked like a joke.
Eight years. How many eight-year stretches does a person get?
I'd given everything for the man I loved, and I'd lost. Completely.
If that was how it was going to be—
I had no reason to stay in that rotting home any longer.
I wiped my tears and caught the last bus.
The irony wasn't lost on me. Blake had two cars sitting in his garage, each worth seven figures.
But when I'd suggested buying a little electric scooter to make my commute easier, he'd called it wasteful.
His cars were never available to me.
I squeezed into a corner of the bus and caught my reflection in the glass.
Red, swollen eyes. Dark circles like bruises. A coat washed so many times it had faded to gray.
No one would believe I was barely past twenty.
I used to think love could conquer anything. Reality had just delivered a brutal correction.
But it was fine.
It wasn't too late. Not yet.
The moment I opened the door, the laughter inside died.
Blake looked over at me, his eyes already cold and distant.
"Where were you? Why are you just getting back now?"
I didn't look at him. I swept my gaze over the men and women lounging in the living room and walked straight to the bedroom.
"Blake, your housekeeper's got quite the attitude."
A young woman turned her head, her tone teasing.
My hand froze on the door handle. I thought about how I must look right now.
Like a housekeeper. That was fair.
Or worse—a housekeeper who paid to work here.
Blake's face darkened. He stormed over, his voice sharp with irritation.
"Narelle, didn't I tell you to have dinner ready? Everyone's been waiting for you. Do you have any shame?"
"Now get in there and—"
Slap.
The sound of my palm connecting with his face silenced the room.
"Get out!"
Blake, who'd been so smug a second ago, staggered from the blow.
He stared at the fury in my eyes, disbelief written across his face.
"Say that again!"
"I said get out! Why the hell should I wait on any of you?"
"Narelle, what's gotten into—"
Before he could finish, I hurled the photo I'd been clutching at his face.
Tears spilled without warning. I screamed at him.
"You're right—I must be out of my mind to have let you use me all these years!"
"Consider everything I did a waste. We're done!"
The battered suitcase lay open on the floor, a stark contrast to the shiny new one I'd arrived with eight years ago.
And Blake was no longer the starry-eyed boy who'd looked at me like I was his whole world, who'd declared, "From now on, you're the lady of this house."
He stared at me, his expression dark.
"All this over forgetting to give you grocery money? Was that really necessary?"
The living room went silent for two beats.
I looked up in disbelief.
Even now, he refused to admit it?
He'd already recovered his composure. He pulled out his wallet, fished out five hundred dollars, and tossed it carelessly onto the vanity.
"Upset because my friend called you the housekeeper? Is that it? There. Go buy yourself some decent clothes, clean yourself up, then go get groceries and make dinner. Even if you're not eating, Mom still needs to."
