THE DOCTOR'S BEAUTIFUL WIFE.

**The Doctor’s Beautiful Wife**

The dining room was breathtaking, a picture of perfection. The elegant chandelier cast a soft, warm glow over the room, and the table was set meticulously with fine china, polished silverware, and crystal glasses. Candles flickered gently in their holders, their flames small and steady, barely moving in the stillness of the house. The room, with all its grandeur, seemed hollow—beautiful, but cold.

Isabelle Collins sat at the head of the table, her fingers lightly drumming against the polished wood. Her dark hair was pulled back into an elegant updo, and her dress, a deep shade of emerald, shimmered under the light. Her beauty, though undeniable, seemed weighed down by an invisible burden. She glanced at the clock above the fireplace. Seven-thirty. He was late again.

She sighed softly, her breath barely audible in the large, empty room. For a moment, she considered calling him, but what would be the point? He always had an excuse—a valid one, of course. Andrew was a busy man, a successful surgeon with a demanding career. It wasn’t his fault, she reminded herself. He wasn’t late because he didn’t care. He was late because people needed him. His patients needed him.

Still, the hollow feeling in her chest persisted. It had been there for months now, growing quietly but steadily, like a shadow creeping across her heart.

The front door clicked open, the sound echoing through the house. Isabelle didn’t move. She remained seated, her eyes fixed on the pristine table setting before her. Footsteps followed, brisk and purposeful, growing louder as they approached the dining room. She knew the routine well by now. He would come in, apologize, offer some brief explanation about a surgery that ran late, and then move on to whatever preoccupied his mind next.

Andrew entered the room, loosening his tie as he walked in. He paused when he saw her sitting there, the full dining table laid out before him, untouched.

"Isabelle," he greeted her, a tired smile on his face. "I’m sorry I’m late. The surgery ran longer than expected. You know how it is."

His words were gentle, and his voice carried a familiar warmth, but there was an emptiness in them, as if he were speaking from habit rather than emotion. He crossed the room to stand beside her, bending down to kiss the top of her head. His lips brushed her hair lightly, but Isabelle didn’t look up. Her fingers continued to trace invisible patterns on the tablecloth.

"You’re always late, Andrew," she said softly, her voice devoid of accusation but laden with something else—something deeper, heavier.

Andrew frowned slightly, not quite understanding. He pulled out a chair beside her and sat down, turning to face her. "I know, and I’m sorry," he said, leaning forward as if to close the gap between them. "But you know how demanding the job is. It’s just… this is how things are for now."

"For now," Isabelle repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. She turned her head to look at him then, her eyes searching his face. His handsome features, once so familiar and comforting, now seemed distant, like a painting she could admire but no longer touch. "It’s always ‘for now,’ isn’t it?"

There was no anger in her tone, but Andrew could hear the exhaustion behind her words. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, rubbing the back of his neck. "Isabelle, come on. You know how important this is. I’m doing this for us, for our future."

"For our future," she echoed, her eyes falling back to the candles in front of her. Their soft glow seemed fragile, as if one breath could snuff them out completely. She wondered how long they had left before they burned down to nothing.

Andrew stood up, walking toward the kitchen without noticing the way her gaze lingered on him. "Let me grab a drink," he said over his shoulder. "I’ll be right back."

Isabelle didn’t respond. She remained seated, her fingers finally coming to a stop on the tablecloth. The silence that filled the room was deafening, broken only by the distant sound of a cabinet door opening and closing in the kitchen.

This was their life now, she thought. Him rushing through the door at odd hours, her waiting for him with meals that went cold, the two of them exchanging the same polite but distant words. It wasn’t always like this. There had been a time when Andrew’s late nights had been rare, when their evenings had been filled with laughter and conversation. But somewhere along the way, the job had taken over. The surgeries, the emergencies, the constant need to be somewhere else—it had all come between them.

Andrew returned, holding a glass of whiskey in his hand. He sat back down across from her, taking a sip before setting the glass on the table. "So, how was your day?" he asked, making an effort to engage her, but his eyes were already drifting toward his phone on the counter, the ever-present distraction just a reach away.

Isabelle watched him closely. His question was a formality, a routine part of their evening conversation, but there was no real interest behind it. She knew the moment she started to answer, he would lose focus, his mind wandering back to the hospital, to the patients he had left behind.

"It was fine," she replied, her voice empty. She didn’t bother to elaborate. What was there to say? She had spent the day much like any other—alone in the house, occupying herself with trivial tasks while waiting for Andrew to come home. She had attended a charity event in the afternoon, smiled at the right people, played the part of the devoted doctor’s wife. But none of it had mattered. None of it filled the void that had slowly consumed her life.

Andrew nodded absently, his gaze drifting back to his phone. Isabelle’s heart sank as she watched him, the ache in her chest growing stronger. She had never imagined this was how her life would turn out—married to a man who was more a stranger than a partner. The love she had once felt for him, the passion and excitement that had defined their early years together, seemed like a distant memory now.

"Andrew," she said suddenly, surprising even herself with the firmness of her tone. He looked up at her, startled by the change in her voice.

"Yeah?" he asked, his brow furrowing slightly.

She hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to put her thoughts into words. There was so much she wanted to say, so much she needed to tell him, but where could she begin? How could she explain the emptiness that had crept into her heart, the loneliness that had taken root in their marriage?

"I miss you," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "I miss us."

Andrew’s expression softened, but there was a hint of confusion in his eyes, as if he didn’t quite understand what she meant. "I’m right here, Isabelle," he said, reaching out to take her hand. "I’m always here."

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? He was here, physically present, but emotionally distant—always somewhere else, always thinking about the next surgery, the next patient. He was here, but not really.

Isabelle withdrew her hand from his grasp, standing up from the table. She didn’t look at him as she walked toward the window, staring out into the dark night beyond. The city lights glittered in the distance, a world full of life and vibrancy that felt completely foreign to her now.

Andrew remained seated, watching her with a puzzled expression. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to bridge the growing chasm between them. The silence stretched on, heavy and uncomfortable.

Isabelle closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. She knew things had to change, but she wasn’t sure how to fix what had broken between them. She wasn’t even sure if it could be fixed. All she knew was that the life they were living now, this hollow existence, wasn’t enough—not anymore.

As the candles flickered and the clock ticked away the seconds, Isabelle felt the weight of her decision pressing down on her. Something had to give. She couldn’t keep waiting forever.

And for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to.