Chapter 2
Lying alone in bed, Eleanor stared up at the ceiling, recalling a casual conversation she'd overheard weeks prior.
She'd dropped off documents at Ryan's office and stepped into the elevator just in time to catch two female coworkers gossiping quietly.
"Can you believe how well Mr. Grant treats Ms. Lane? Word is he upgraded her to first class all on his last business trip."
"I know, it's heartbreaking for Ms. Shaw. Three years married into the Grant family, still no baby. No one even knows if she'll hold onto her place as his wife long-term."
"Keep your voice down..."
The elevator doors slid open, and Eleanor stepped out, keeping her usual polished, pleasant smile fixed on her face. She'd always been good at putting on that perfect mask for others.
But that night, standing before her bathroom mirror, she'd tried to force a smile and found she couldn't fake it anymore.
On the day of the scheduled checkup, Ryan never showed up.
Alone on a plastic waiting chair in the hospital corridor, Eleanor clutched her medical form and waited forty minutes.
The nurse called Ryan's name three times, each glance drifting toward her, shifting from mild confusion to quiet sympathy.
On the fourth call, Eleanor stood up calmly. "He's tied up with work unexpectedly. I'll go ahead with my tests alone."
She knew the routine by heart now. Blood work, ultrasound, gynecological screenings—the full process took less than an hour. The doctor reviewed her report and repeated the same familiar line. "Your health is in perfect condition, Mrs. Grant."
Eleanor smiled faintly, tucking the report into her handbag.
As she stepped out of the hospital entrance, her phone vibrated with a message from Ryan, only three cold words: [Meeting ran over.]
No apology, no explanation, not even a quick check-in about her appointment. Just a detached, impersonal update.
Staring at the message for a long moment, Eleanor locked her phone and slipped it into her bag.
She had no desire to head home. The place was far too large, at 1937 square feet. She spent far more lonely hours there than Ryan ever did.
Eleanor memorized every pattern on the floor tiles, knew exactly which angle the afternoon sunlight slanted into the living room, and even noticed the unread poetry collection gathering dust on the study's second bookshelf.
She knew every tiny detail of their home.
Yet she had no idea what truly went on inside her husband's mind.
As Eleanor wandered aimlessly down the street, the crisp March wind cut through her thin outerwear. No coat hung over her shoulders, and the chilly breeze slipped down her collar, sending a sharp shiver through her frame.
She paused when she passed a downtown shopping mall.
Gliding slowly into the underground parking garage was a black Maybach.
It was Ryan's car, its license plate etched permanently into her memory.
He'd claimed his meeting had run over.
Heart pounding heavily in her chest, Eleanor stood rooted to the sidewalk. Logic urged her to walk away, to head home, to keep playing the role of the gentle, understanding Mrs. Grant everyone expected.
But her feet wouldn't move.
Almost against her better judgment, she followed him inside.
The mall's fifth floor housed an upscale fine-dining district.
Stepping off the elevator, Eleanor spotted Ryan at once. He stood outside a high-end bistro, glancing down at his phone, his sharp profile softened by the warm ambient overhead lights.
Moments later, a woman walked over from the restroom wing and slipped naturally onto his arm. Olivia.
It was Olivia.
Dressed in a burgundy midi dress with long hair falling over her shoulders, she looked radiant and confident.
She leaned in to whisper something quiet in his ear, and a faint smile appeared on Ryan's face. It was a soft, genuine look Eleanor hadn't seen since the first few months of their marriage.
After those early days, that warmth had vanished completely.
Side by side, they walked into the restaurant, Olivia's arm never leaving his.
Eleanor stood frozen by the elevator doors. She remembered clinging to Ryan's arm the same way shortly after their wedding.
One of his acquaintances had teased him about being a lucky man, yet Ryan had only nodded distantly, never sparing her a single glance.
Back then, she'd excused it as his reserved nature, telling herself he simply didn't like public displays of affection.
Watching Olivia walk into the restaurant with him now, Eleanor suddenly felt like nothing more than a fool.
She turned away and pressed the elevator call button.
Tears never fell. Her eyes stung dry, as if filled with fine grit, yet no moisture spilled over her cheeks.
The elevator descended to the ground floor, doors sliding open to flood in a rush of foot traffic. Swept along by the crowd, she stepped out onto the street, suddenly adrift with no idea where to go.
Go home? Back to that cold, empty apartment where every small sound echoed off the bare walls?
She turned into a quiet neighborhood bar just down the block.
It was half past three in the afternoon, the bar quiet and dimly lit. Only one bartender stood behind the counter, polishing glassware slowly. Eleanor slid into a secluded corner booth and ordered a Long Island Iced Tea.
She rarely drank at all. Barely touching beer before marriage, she only sipped wine politely at Ryan's formal events for appearances. But today, she craved the numbing burn of alcohol.
The first glass burned her throat sharply.
The second left her head spinning softly.
By the time she reached the middle of the third drink, everything melted into a gentle, indistinct haze, like shapes seen through frosted glass.
All those sharp, painful scenes, including Ryan's tender attention to Olivia at the dinner table, Olivia's arm threaded through his, and the unguarded curve of his smile, so rarely given, seemed to recede and soften into a distant, muted backdrop.
"Drinking alone to drown your sorrows?" The voice was youthful, ringing out beside her.