Chapter 8

Evelyn’s P.O.V

The house had gone quiet hours ago. Alfred had fallen asleep in the guest room after pretending he was giving me “space.” The word rolled in my head like poison. Space. As if he hadn’t already taken every inch of it from me.

The bathroom light was dim, gold from the vanity lamps, the kind of soft light that hides the truth. I didn’t bother locking the door. If he walked in, he’d see what he made not the woman he married, but the ghost he sculpted with his hands and his silences.

I sank deeper into the bath, water warm enough to sting. The scent of wine clung to the rim of my glass. Half-empty bottle on the floor beside the tub. Half of me wanted to drown in that warmth; the other half wanted to stand up and smash every mirror in the room.

I tilted my head back, water curling over my ears. The sound dulled the world. For a moment, I almost believed I could float away.

But memory doesn’t drown easy.

I saw the boardroom first , the glass walls, the smell of coffee and ambition, my name on the presentation slides. I’d been Evelyn Cole, attorney, strategist, the woman people looked at and thought She’s going places. My phone had buzzed that afternoon, his name flashing on the screen: Alfred.

“Dinner tonight,” he’d said. “Something special.”

That was the night he told me he wanted a family. He’d reached for my hand across the table, smile soft, voice full of promise. You’ve worked so hard, Eve. Maybe it’s time you breathe. Take care of the kids, my political career is demanding and the kids need you more now

He’d said it like it was a gift.

“Just a year ,” he’d whispered later, when I hesitated. “One year off. You deserve it.”

One year turned into two. Then five. Then 10 years of being a housewife, years of being The Mrs. Cole, the supportive housewife of Beverly Hills “ a name heavy enough to drown me.

I ran a hand over my collarbone, watching water ripple around it. My skin looked foreign, pale and tired. I remembered the courtroom rush, the adrenaline of being seen, of being heard. Now, my days were grocery lists, charity brunches, rehearsed smiles.

Alfred had taken my edge and called it love.

I reached for the bottle and poured another glass, spilling some on the tile. The liquid gleamed under the light like blood.

My reflection in the bathwater wavered — eyes red, lips trembling. I laughed quietly, the kind of laugh that doesn’t sound human. “I gave you everything,” I whispered, to no one and to him all the same.

I thought of the lipstick on his collar. The woman at the party. The look in his eyes when he said calm down, as if my fury was the problem, not his betrayal.

My fingers gripped the edge of the tub until they hurt.

I remembered the first time he called me emotional the way he’d smiled when he said it, like it was a compliment. I’d been defending him to a friend, something about a rumor, a campaign rumor even back then. He’d stood beside me, let me speak, then afterward said, “You really do love a fight, don’t you, Eve?”

That was the first chip in me. The first place I started to crack for him. Now, every part of me was fractured. I drained half the glass in one swallow and set it down too hard. It clinked, rolled, settled against the tile.

My mind kept bringing back all the years of cheating, lies and deceit . He wasn’t ashamed. That was what burned most. Alfred didn’t even try to hide the satisfaction. To him, this was all part of his life, his privilege, his narrative. I was just the woman who should know better than to question him.

“Support me,” he’d said a thousand times. “Be there for me, Eve.” And I had. Through every scandal, every cold night, every public smile that felt like a lie. I payed his debts. I sacrificed everything for him.

The water had cooled, but I stayed still. My fingers wrinkled. I ran one along the rim of the glass, tracing circles, thinking of the way he touched her arm at the party not accidental, not brief, but lingering, the kind of touch that says I can.

A tear slipped into the water, vanished instantly.

Then another. Then another

Until I stopped trying to hold them back. My breath hitched, broken, and I covered my mouth with both hands. My shoulders shook, the sobs coming quiet and deep, years too late.

No one heard. No one ever did.

I stayed like that for minutes or hours, I didn’t know anymore. I thought of the girl I’d been, the woman I’d become, and the man who’d built himself from my sacrifice.

Then, just as suddenly, the crying stopped. Silence filled the room again, but it felt different harder, sharper, like the edge of something new.

I took a deep breath, opened my eyes, and stared at my reflection again. The woman looking back at me didn’t look small anymore. She looked dangerous. He took my career. He took my pride. He took my voice.

Now I was going to take everything he cared about. Not in a fit of rage, not with shouting or thrown glass but with precision. With the same calm he used to destroy me.

He’d turned my power into patience. He’d mistake that for weakness. He wouldn’t see it coming.

I stood, water sliding off me, cold against my skin. My head spun from the wine, but my thoughts were crystal clear.

This was the end of Evelyn Cole, the quiet wife. The woman who waited, who forgave, who covered for him. When I walked out of that bathroom, I knew exactly what I’d become. And I didn’t care if it ruined me too. Because he’d ruined me first.

I grabbed the towel, wrapped it around myself, and faced the mirror one last time. My eyes were swollen, my hair damp and messy, but I smiled anyway.

“I hope you sleep well tonight,” I whispered to the air, imagining his lying face in front of me

“Because soon, Alfred, I’ll make sure you never do again.”