I was married for six years, and my stoic, predictable husband suddenly became very, very strange. He started spending an hour getting dressed, two hours at the gym, and three hours in the middle of the workday "coincidentally" bringing me lunch, glaring at any man under 30 who walked past my desk. I had no idea what was wrong with him, until I found his diary. "She didn't wear her wedding ring to work today. Was it an oversight, or is this the beginning of the end? I can't think straight. I'm too scared to ask. I'm going insane..." "She liked that intern's post on Instagram. Is she trying to kill me? It's his fault. That pretty-boy asshole, posting his stupid gym selfies..." "The man in the mirror is aging. He's decaying. He's getting ugly. No. I have to perfect this vessel. It's the only way she won't leave me." "I'm so helpless. I'm five years older than her. I'm not young anymore. My looks will fade, and when they do, her love will, too. This is how it ends..." 1 My marriage to Arthur was, by all accounts, perfect. He was handsome, successful, and treated me with a gentle, respectful courtesy. A model husband. But only I knew how suffocating that perfection was. During my lunch break, my colleague, Sarah, was leaning against the counter in the breakroom, complaining. "I got home at 8 PM," she vented, "and he was just... pouting. I had to spend an hour apologizing before he’d even talk to me. And now I’m banned from wearing skirts above the knee. Can you believe the nerve?" She turned to me, a sly grin on her face. "Eliza, you're lucky. Arthur is so buttoned-up in the boardroom. I bet he's an absolute control freak in private, right? Super possessive?" I just smiled and sipped my tea. The truth, and the bitter irony, was the exact opposite. In six years, Arthur had never been possessive. He was a robot, programmed for politeness. He never asked who I was with, never cared what time I came home, and would probably sooner die than touch my phone. My colleagues always said love requires a little jealousy. That a lack of possession means a lack of love. So, did Arthur... not love me? Was I the only one who had actually fallen? My fingers tightened around the warm mug. It was the chamomile tea Arthur had made for me that morning before he left. He’d silently placed it in my tote bag, then disappeared into the walk-in closet. Lately, he’d been obsessed with his appearance. He was even wearing cologne, a scent he used to hate. A dark, unwelcome thought crept into my mind. On impulse, I opened the security app for our apartment. The living room camera was active. And there was Arthur, on the yoga mat, directly in front of the camera. He was shirtless. His throat worked as he counted reps. The sunlight from the penthouse window hit the sweat on his abs, highlighting every defined muscle. His low-rise joggers were slung dangerously low on his hips, shifting with every crunch. It felt... staged. Like a dangerous, private invitation. My throat went tight. My finger hovered over the "zoom" icon. The screen abruptly went black, replaced by my boss's face. A video call. The spell shattered. I slammed my laptop shut, my heart hammering. 2 The call was to announce a last-minute team dinner. Annoyed, I reached up to twist my wedding ring... and my finger was bare. I froze. I remembered the night before last. Things had gotten... athletic. I’d been afraid of scratching him, so I’d taken it off. It was still on the nightstand. My colleagues were all texting their partners. I sighed and stepped into the hallway to call Arthur. He picked up on the first ring, his voice low and smooth. "Eliza." My face warmed. "Hey. I have a work dinner tonight. I might be late." The line went dead silent. Not even the sound of him breathing. I pulled the phone away from my ear. "Arthur? Are you there?" "I'm here," he said. His voice was rough, like gravel, and there was a tremor I'd never heard before. "Do you... do you have to go?" I was about to say yes, obviously, when he cut me off, his voice cracking. "Will you... will you be coming home? Tonight? Eliza, are you coming back?" "Of course I am," I said, completely baffled. "You are?!" His relief was so loud it was almost desperate. He cleared his throat. "I mean, good. That's good. I'll wait up. Whatever time you get home... just... as long as you come home. I'll be here." I was starting to get worried. "Okay... Can you leave the light on for me?" "Yes," he said, instantly. "I will." 3 My boss is a notorious cheapskate. The "team dinner" was at a grimy dive bar with an outdoor patio. By the time I'd wrangled my drunk VP into an Uber, my neck, my ankles, and my hands were covered in itchy, red mosquito bites. It was 10 PM when I finally got home. The apartment was dark. The entry light flickered on, illuminating an empty living room. Arthur wasn't home. I pulled out my phone to call him, just as the front door opened behind me. Arthur. He was soaked to the bone. Rainwater dripped from his hair onto the marble floor. His perfectly tailored white shirt was plastered to his chest, his suit jacket and tie gone. He wasn't the composed executive. He looked like a stray dog, lost and broken. We stared at each other. "You're home," he said. His voice was flat, dead. "I... yeah. What happened to you? Get inside." He stepped in, and his eyes scanned my face, my mouth, my neck. When his gaze hit my neck, he froze. I caught a whiff of him. Under the rain and his expensive cologne, there was... cheap beer and fried onions. The smell of the exact dive bar I’d just left. "Arthur, were you... were you there? I'm so sorry, I didn't see you, I was..." "I don't want to know!" he snapped, his voice sharp. He wouldn't look at me. "I mean... no. I wasn't. I just... went for a walk." "Okay, well, I should tell you, tonight..." His jaw tensed. "Stop. I'm... I'm tired. I'm going to take a shower." He practically ran, slamming the bathroom door. 4 I stood in the living room, confused. Over the sound of the shower, I heard it. A small, choked sound. He was crying. "Arthur?" I knocked. "Are you okay? I heard... are you crying?" A long pause. The water shut off. "You misheard," he said, his voice flat. "I'm fine." I gave up and curled up on the sofa. When he came out, he was wrapped in a robe. He went to his dresser and started... getting dressed. He was meticulously choosing a tie. "You have an early meeting?" I mumbled, "It's Friday night." His hands froze on the silk tie. His knuckles were white. "This one... it's a little dated, don't you think?" I said, trying to make conversation. "We should get you some new ones." He didn't speak. His hands dropped. The tie fell to the floor. "Dated," he whispered, so quietly I almost didn't hear it. "Is it... is it just the tie?" "What?" I sat up, and the scent of him hit me. He turned around. His eyes were red-rimmed. His lip was trembling. And he was wearing... oh my god. He was wearing the ridiculous, black lace-trimmed silk boxers I’d bought him as a gag gift our first year of marriage. He’d been horrified. He’d sworn he'd burned them. And now... he was wearing them. I couldn't help it. My breath hitched. "Wow," I said, my face burning. "You, uh... you've still got it, old man." His face crumpled. "Old?" "No, I just meant..." I stood up, reaching for him. "It's late. Why don't we..." He flinched away from my hand like I'd burned him. "I... I have work to do," he stammered, his voice thick. "In the study. You go to bed."
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