A Billionaire's Boredom, A Wife's Rise

Eliza Dunlap POV:

He didn' t come home the next day. Or the night after that. When Atticus finally walked through the door on the third evening, I was sitting at the dining table, staring at a plate of food I had no appetite for.

In the early days of our marriage, after our first real fight, he had come home with a ridiculously large bouquet of my favorite peonies and a small, velvet box containing a diamond bracelet. It was his way of saying sorry, a grand gesture to smooth over the cracks.

Tonight, he came home empty-handed.

"Hey," he said, his voice flat as he shrugged off his jacket. He didn't look at me.

He sat down opposite me and picked up his fork, prodding at the seared salmon on his plate. The silence was thick with unspoken accusations.

"What is this?" he asked, his brow furrowed in distaste. "The fish is dry."

I stared at him, my own fork frozen midway to my mouth.

"Three years, Eliza," he said, his voice rising with a sudden, disproportionate anger. "You' ve been doing this for three years. Is it too much to ask for a decent meal?"

His anger was a confusing, jarring thing. It felt unearned, misplaced. I hadn't seen him for two days, he'd spent at least one night at his ex-fiancée's apartment, and he was yelling at me about dry fish. It was then I knew. This wasn't about the salmon. This was the turning point. The moment the unspoken resentment finally boiled over into open hostility.

Our housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, a kind woman who had been with his family for decades, scurried out from the kitchen, her face etched with worry.

"Mr. Monroe, sir, I'm so sorry," she said, wringing her hands. "It's my fault. Mrs. Monroe wasn't feeling well today, so I prepared the dinner. I must have overcooked it."

Atticus' s head snapped up, his gaze finally landing on me. For the first time, he seemed to actually see me, taking in my pale face and the dark circles under my eyes. A flicker of something-guilt, perhaps-crossed his features before being quickly suppressed. He was speechless.

He waved a dismissive hand. "It's fine. We'll just make do," he muttered, his anger deflating as quickly as it had appeared.

But he didn't apologize. Not for yelling, not for his false accusation, and certainly not for the past two nights.

I deliberately placed my fork and knife down on my plate with a soft clatter. The sound was quiet, but in the tense silence of the room, it was as loud as a gunshot.

He looked up, his eyes wary.

"Atticus," I said, my voice even and calm. "Do you hate me?"

His head gave a slight, almost imperceptible tremor. His gaze was unreadable, a carefully constructed mask of neutrality. "Don't be dramatic, Eliza."

"Then what is it?" I pressed. "You're angry, but I don't know why. Tell me."

"I just had a long day," he said, pushing his food around his plate. He sighed, leaning back in his chair and running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. It was his classic move, the gesture he used when he was trying to appear reasonable and patient in the face of what he considered my emotionality. "I apologized for raising my voice. I expect you to manage the household. That includes the kitchen. It' s not too much to ask."

I stared into his eyes, searching for a trace of the man I had married, the man who had looked at me with such adoration. I found nothing. Only a cold, weary impatience.

"I am not your housekeeper," I said, the words tasting like freedom on my tongue. "And I am not your personal chef. If you don't like the food, you can find someone else to cook it. From now on, I'm done."

I pushed my chair back and stood up.

"And for the record," I added, my voice hardening, "if you prefer the 'simple things,' I'm sure Isla would be more than happy to order you a pizza. Or maybe she could cook for you herself."

The color drained from his face. He shot to his feet, his chair scraping loudly against the polished floor. "What does Isla have to do with this?" he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous growl.

"Everything," I said simply.

"You're being unreasonable, Eliza," he snapped, his composure finally cracking. "Stop bringing her into every conversation!" He slammed his hand down on the table, making the silverware jump. "This is exactly what I mean! This drama! I can't deal with this!"

He turned and stormed out of the dining room, leaving me standing alone in the deafening silence, the smell of the dry, unwanted salmon hanging in the air like a funeral wreath for our marriage.