Eliza POV:
The front door clicked open just after midnight. I was in the kitchen, methodically wiping down the marble countertops, the scent of lemon and bleach a clean, sharp counterpoint to the lingering sweetness of birthday cake.
It was Drake' s birthday. I' d taken the afternoon off from the architectural firm, the one I' d been a junior partner at before I downshifted my career to support his. I had spent hours baking his favorite red velvet cake from scratch, the one his mother used to make. I' d cooked a full dinner, the dishes now sitting cold and untouched on the stove.
He had promised to be home by seven. "A quick drink with the team to celebrate the merger, then I' m all yours, babe," he' d texted.
I waited until eleven before I saw the pictures. Not from him, but from one of Kandace' s friends on Instagram. A carousel of photos from a chic downtown bar: Drake with his arm around Kandace as she blew out a single candle on a cupcake, Drake laughing as she playfully smeared frosting on his nose, the whole team raising champagne glasses in a toast.
He walked into the kitchen now, loosening his tie, a picture of weary success. He sniffed the air.
"Did you bake?" he asked, his tone deceptively casual. He walked over to the cake, still perfect under its glass dome, and dipped a finger into the cream cheese frosting.
He turned and, before I could react, smeared the white cream across my cheek. It was a gesture that was meant to be playful, intimate. Years ago, I would have laughed.
Tonight, I just stood there.
"It' s red velvet," I said, my voice flat.
"You made it?"
"Yes."
He licked the frosting from his finger, then frowned. "It' s a little lumpy. And the color' s off. Looks more like a sad brick than velvet."
The old Eliza would have defended her efforts, reminding him that she' d spent hours trying to get it just right, that it was the thought that counted. The new Eliza simply picked up a napkin, wiped the frosting from her face, and tossed it into the trash. There was no point arguing with a critique that wasn' t about the cake at all.
He watched me, a small frown line appearing between his brows. He was expecting a reaction, a spark to ignite his favorite game of fight-and-make-up. He got nothing.
"Hey," he said, his voice softening. The love-bombing phase was about to begin. "I brought you something."
He pulled a white paper bag from his briefcase. "Your favorite spicy chicken from that place downtown."
"I saw it on Kandace' s story," I said, my voice devoid of accusation. It was a simple statement of fact.
His face tightened for a fraction of a second. "Right. Well, I saved you some. Let me just heat it up for you."
He took the container to the microwave, fumbling with the settings like a tourist in his own kitchen. A moment later, he disappeared into our bedroom to change. I heard the shower turn on.
A burning smell began to fill the kitchen. The microwave beeped insistently, but the shower was still running. With a sigh, I walked over and pulled the door open. A cloud of acrid smoke billowed out. He' d put the plastic container in for five minutes instead of one.
As I reached to unplug the smoking appliance, his phone, left on the counter, lit up. It was a text message from Kandace.
"Tonight was perfect. Can' t wait to make all your future birthdays this special. "
The bathroom door opened. Drake emerged, toweling his hair, a fresh shirt slung over his shoulder. He saw me standing by the counter, his phone illuminated in my hand. His face darkened.
"What are you doing, snooping through my phone?" he snarled, striding towards me.
He moved too fast. Or maybe I moved too slow, my limbs still heavy with the day' s exhaustion. He snatched the phone from my grasp, his shoulder slamming into mine.
The momentum sent me stumbling backward. My bandaged hand, the one I' d burned on the oven rack while pulling out his stupid cake, hit the pot of now-congealed soup on the stove.
The pot tipped.
A wave of scalding, greasy liquid cascaded down my arm. A searing, white-hot pain shot from my wrist to my elbow. I cried out, a sharp, involuntary sound.
The pot clattered to the floor, splashing soup across the pristine tiles I had just mopped.
Drake didn' t look at me. He didn' t look at my arm, which was already turning an angry, blistering red.
He was staring at his phone, his thumb furiously deleting Kandace' s message.
