Wrong Number: My Sweetest Goodbye

Eliza POV:

Drake came home late the next evening to find me on the sofa, eating Thai food out of a takeout container and watching a mindless reality show. My arm was professionally bandaged, a stark white cylinder against my skin.

"You didn' t make dinner?" he asked, dropping his briefcase by the door. It wasn' t a question; it was an accusation.

He knew my hand was burned. He had texted earlier, a perfunctory "How' s the arm?" to which I hadn' t replied. He had also texted, "Be home at 8. Starving."

"My phone was charging," I said, not looking away from the TV.

He sighed, a long-suffering sound, and then his expression changed. He was holding a small, glossy gift bag from a high-end French cosmetic brand. He held it out to me like an offering.

"Your face cream was almost empty," he said, his voice softer now. He was watching me, his gaze intense, searching for a sign of gratitude, of forgiveness. It was a look that said, See? I pay attention. I' m a good husband.

I finally turned to look at him. His eyes held that familiar, condescending pity he reserved for me when he was feeling generous.

"No, thank you," I said, my voice polite but distant.

He blinked. "What?"

"I don' t like that brand. It' s too expensive."

It was a lie. I loved that brand. But I had seen Kandace' s Instagram story that afternoon: a selfie of her and Drake at the brand' s boutique, her holding up the exact same jar of cream, with the caption, "He spoils me! " This wasn' t a gift for me; it was a duplicate, a convenient afterthought.

My bandaged arm rested on a pillow. My eyes flickered back to the TV, where a woman was throwing a glass of wine in another woman' s face.

Drake moved closer, trying to look at my arm. "Does it hurt?"

I flinched away from his touch, a purely instinctual reaction. My bandaged arm knocked the gift bag from the coffee table. The heavy glass jar inside hit the hardwood floor with a sickening crack. White cream and shards of glass spread across the polished wood.

He stared at the mess, then back at me, his jaw clenching. "Are you serious, Eliza? You' re going to throw a tantrum over a little burn?"

"I' m not angry," I said simply. It was the truth.

"Oh, I get it," he sneered, the kindness evaporating. "You' re giving me the silent treatment. How old are you, twelve? It' s pathetic. You know, for an architect, sometimes you' re just so damn stupid."

The old Eliza would be crying now. Her chest would be tight, her throat raw with unshed sobs. The new Eliza felt a strange sense of detachment, as if she were watching a scene from a movie.

"Think whatever you want, Drake," I said, my voice weary.

I stood up, carefully collected my takeout containers, and threw them in the trash. I walked towards the front door, grabbing my purse.

He followed me, his steps heavy with anger. This was not going according to his script. "Where are you going?"

"Out."

"Out where?" he demanded, blocking my path.

"To see a friend," I lied, pulling my keys from my bag.

The elevator doors slid open. I stepped inside without a backward glance. The doors closed on his face, his expression a mixture of fury and utter bewilderment. He couldn' t comprehend a world where I wasn' t orbiting him, desperate for his attention, his approval, his forgiveness.

He was about to learn.