A Billionaire's Boredom, A Wife's Rise

Eliza Dunlap POV:

I didn't wait up for him. The days of me sitting by the window, watching the driveway for the sweep of his headlights, were over. That version of Eliza Dunlap had died in the hallway outside his office.

The house was dark and silent, a cavernous space that once felt like a sanctuary but now felt like a beautifully decorated tomb. I lay in our king-sized bed, the space beside me cold and empty, and stared at the ceiling.

It was past two in the morning when my phone buzzed on the nightstand. Atticus' s name flashed on the screen. I let it ring, a small, bitter part of me wanting him to feel the sting of being ignored. But on the fourth ring, I gave in and answered.

"Hello?"

It wasn't his voice that replied. It was Isla's.

"Eliza? Hi, it's Isla." Her voice was smooth, laced with a feigned concern that made my skin crawl. "I'm so sorry to call this late."

I sat up, the phone clutched tight in my hand. "Isla? Where's Atticus? Is he okay?"

"Oh, he's fine," she said with a light, dismissive laugh. "A little too fine, actually. He's had a bit too much to drink."

My heart hammered against my ribs. "Where is he?"

"He's here. At my place," she said, letting the words hang in the air for a beat too long. "Don't worry," she added quickly, her tone dripping with false innocence. "The whole team came back here for a nightcap, but everyone else just left. He' s passed out on my sofa. I didn't think it was safe for him to drive, and I didn't want to wake you by having a car drop him off."

Every word was a carefully chosen dart, aimed to wound. She was a master of this game, painting herself as the responsible friend while simultaneously flaunting her intimacy with my husband.

In the crushing silence of the bedroom, I could see her strategy with perfect clarity. This wasn't a courtesy call; it was a power play. A declaration.

"Put him on the phone," I said, my voice cold and steady.

"Oh, I don't know if I can wake him-"

"Put. Him. On. The. Phone. Isla."

There was a moment of silence, then a muffled sound as she moved. I heard her syrupy voice in the background, "Atticus, honey, wake up. Eliza's on the phone."

A few seconds later, his voice came through, thick with sleep and alcohol. "Liza?"

"Where are you, Atticus?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"At Isla's," he slurred. "We... we were celebrating. Big deal closed."

"You couldn't come home?" The question sounded weak, even to my own ears. Pathetic.

"It's loud here," he said, not answering my question. "I don't wanna go home. It's too quiet there. Too... boring."

There it was again. That word. Boring. Was I the reason he found his home boring? Was my quiet, steady presence the source of his profound ennui?

"Do you regret it?" I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it.

"Regret what?" he mumbled, confused.

"Us," I whispered. "Marrying me."

He was silent for a long moment. I could hear the faint sound of music in the background, the clink of a glass. "Don't be silly, Liza," he finally said, his voice a hollow echo of the man I married. It wasn't a denial.

Suddenly, the phone was snatched away. Isla was back on the line, her voice a sharp contrast to his drunken haze. "He's really out of it, Eliza. I think it's best he just stays here."

Then, I heard her say something away from the phone, a playful, chiding tone in her voice. "Atticus, behave! You're tickling me."

I heard his laugh in response, a low rumble that was suddenly sharp and sober. Far too sober for a man who was supposedly "passed out."

"Give Eliza my love," he said, his voice clear and teasing. "Tell her not to worry. After all, you were my fiancée first. You know how to take care of me."

The line went dead in my ears, but his words continued to reverberate in my mind. You were my fiancée first.

It was a piece of history I hadn't learned until after our wedding. A small, significant detail the Monroe family had conveniently omitted. Atticus and Isla, products of two powerful, old-money families, had been engaged. It was an arranged match, a merger of dynasties.

Then he met me. The promising young architect from a middle-class background. He' d told me he fell in love with my passion, my independence, my "realness." He had called off his engagement to Isla, defied his family, and married me in a whirlwind romance that felt like a fairytale.

He had loved me then. I knew he had. His eyes used to follow me around a room, filled with a light that I now realized had been extinguished for a long, long time.

Three years. That' s how long it took for the fairytale to curdle. That's how long it took for his grand romantic gesture of defiance to become a burden. He hadn't just chosen me; he had rejected her, and now, it seemed, he was spending every moment trying to undo that decision. The quiet, predictable life he'd claimed to want with me had become the cage he was desperate to escape. And Isla was holding the key.