Chapter 3
Eleanor POV
"Eleanor."
The familiar voice pulled me from my memories. I looked up, startled by the figure in the doorway. Derek stood there—my husband, though that word had felt increasingly hollow over our two years of separation.
"Derek?" I could barely believe my eyes, my voice hardly above a whisper. The silk of my nightgown slipped from my shoulder as I stared at him, momentarily robbed of coherent thought.
I blinked rapidly, trying to process the shock of his presence. He was undeniably real, his tall frame casting long shadows across our bedroom floor. The faint scent of expensive whiskey drifted toward me.
"I thought you weren't coming home tonight," I said, struggling to keep my voice steady despite the chaos of emotions within me.
"And where did you expect me to stay?" Derek asked, his tone tinged with sarcasm.
"I didn't mean—" I faltered, gathering the sheets around me. "I just didn't anticipate you'd return to the apartment tonight." I mumbled under my breath, "It's not like you enjoy being around me anyway."
Derek let out a cold laugh. "This apartment is in my name, isn't it? Do I need your permission to come and go?"
His words stung, as they were meant to. I swallowed hard, reminding myself that showing hurt would only make things worse. "Of course not," I replied, my voice cooling slightly. "I simply wasn't expecting you."
I watched him remove his suit jacket and hang it carefully in the closet. Every movement was precise, controlled—so different from the animated Derek I'd known in our brief months of happiness. London had changed him. Or perhaps this was who he'd always been, and I'd simply been too blinded by love to see it.
"You haven't asked why I'm back," he remarked, unbuttoning his cuffs.
I didn't dare tell him the truth—that I feared the answer would be about our impending divorce. "I assumed it was business," I said instead, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue.
Derek made a noncommittal sound. "Your flower shop seems to be doing well. I heard about it at the club tonight."
The knowledge that he'd been discussing me with others while ignoring my texts sent a fresh wave of hurt through me. "Yes, Four Seasons Florals has been quite successful. We've expanded to corporate accounts and wedding services."
"Wedding services," he repeated, a hint of irony in his voice. "How fitting."
I couldn't decipher what he meant by that, and I wasn't sure I wanted to. "Are you hungry?" I asked, changing the subject. "I could heat something for you."
"No need. I ate at the club with Thomas."
Of course he had. While I'd been sitting at our dining table alone, staring at the untouched salmon I'd prepared, he'd been enjoying himself with friends. The social media post I'd seen earlier flashed through my mind.
"I'm going to take a shower," Derek said, already loosening his tie.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak as he disappeared into the bathroom. Soon I heard the shower running, and I exhaled slowly, only then realizing I'd been holding my breath. Two years. Two years since we'd shared this space, this bed. Two years of me pretending our marriage was simply on pause rather than effectively over.
I reached for the nightstand drawer and pulled out a novel I hadn't started yet, trying to focus on the words, but they blurred before my eyes. The sound of water running in the shower was distracting, making it impossible not to picture Derek on the other side of that door. Water cascading over his shoulders, down his chest...
"Stop it," I whispered to myself, closing the book with more force than necessary. This was precisely why I couldn't move on—these persistent fantasies about a man who had made it abundantly clear that he viewed our marriage as nothing more than an obligation.
Minutes stretched endlessly. I tried to concentrate on my book again but found myself reading the same paragraph over and over without comprehension. The water finally shut off, and I braced myself for Derek's return.
The bathroom door opened, and Derek emerged with only a towel wrapped low around his hips, his chest bare and still glistening with water droplets. I gasped involuntarily.
"Ah! I'm sorry!" I stammered, quickly turning away. "Do you... do you need me to get you pajamas?"
Derek's tone was mocking. "This is my own home. I'll dress however I want. You can like it or lump it."
An awkward silence fell between us. I could smell the expensive body wash he used, the scent making me slightly dizzy.
"Need I remind you," I said carefully, "that we've barely seen each other for two of those three years."
Derek didn't respond immediately. He moved to the dresser and retrieved a pair of pajama bottoms, dropping the towel to put them on. I inadvertently caught sight of the noticeable bulge in his shorts, and heat immediately rushed to my face. I quickly averted my eyes, my heart racing and my body feeling strangely tense. The reaction annoyed me.
Derek walked to his side of the bed and pulled back the covers, sliding in beside me. "Regardless," he finally said, "this is my home too. I'll dress as I please."
The mattress dipped under his weight, and I was acutely aware of the mere foot of space separating us—a distance that felt simultaneously vast and insufficient. For two years, I'd slept alone in this king-sized bed, gradually migrating to the center. Now, I was hyperconscious of staying firmly on my side.
"You..." I began, then paused, gathering my courage. "Is there something special happening? Is that why you're back in Boston?"
The question hung in the air between us. I wanted desperately to ask if he was here to finalize our divorce, but fear kept me from being more direct.
"It doesn't concern you," he said eventually, his voice cold. "Act like I'm not even here. Isn't that how we've managed for years?"
His words cut deep, but I refused to let him see how much they hurt. I simply nodded and turned away from him. "Goodnight, Derek," I said softly.
"Goodnight," he replied, turning his back to me.
I lay motionless, listening to Derek's breathing gradually slow and deepen. My hand crept up to touch the silver star pendant at my throat—the only gift he'd ever given me, presented as an afterthought when he proposed. To him, it had likely been a meaningless trinket, but to me, it had become precious beyond measure.
Sleep eluded me completely. Derek's presence was too distracting, too unfamiliar yet achingly familiar all at once. After about half an hour, when I was certain he must be asleep, I allowed myself to inch closer to his warmth, moving carefully to avoid disturbing him. Just a little closer, I told myself. Just to feel less alone.
Then, unexpectedly, Derek rolled over. His arm slid around my waist, pulling me against his chest with surprising strength. I froze, hardly daring to breathe as his hand moved upward beneath my nightgown, finding and cupping my breast. A soft gasp escaped me, my body instantly responding to his touch despite all my mental protests.
I knew this was likely just physical for him—a man's instinctive reaction to a woman in his bed. It meant nothing emotional.
Yet in that moment, logic held no power over me. I leaned into his touch, allowing myself this small comfort, this brief illusion that he might actually want me.