PART 3: The Morning After

PART 3: The Morning After

Bright morning light masks cold betrayals.

The morning sun filtered lazily through the blinds, casting pale golden lines across the kitchen floor.

Diane was already at the stove, humming loudly as she cracked eggs into a greasy skillet, while Madison sat at the island scrolling through her phone.

Eric walked in a few minutes later, adjusting his tie, looking entirely untroubled by the violence of the previous evening.

He didn't apologize for the slap.

In fact, he acted as though my silence was a sign of total submission—a lesson well learned.

"Morning, Elena," Eric grunted, pouring himself a cup of coffee without offering me a glance. "Mom’s making breakfast. Try to make yourself useful and set the table."

I stood by the kitchen sink, holding a mug of tea, looking at the man I had loved for three years.

He had a prominent jawline, amber eyes, and a profound, bottomless arrogance that stemmed from centuries of generational entitlement.

He believed that because he was a man, and because his mother commanded the household dynamics, I was legally and morally obligated to bow my head.

"I'm not setting the table, Eric," I said, my voice steady, calm, and completely devoid of emotion.

Eric paused, his coffee mug halfway to his mouth.

Diane turned around from the stove, spatula in hand, her eyebrows shooting up in righteous indignation.

"What did you just say?" Diane snapped. "Your husband speaks to you, and you reply with attitude? After everything this family has tolerated from you?"

"I said no," I repeated, walking past them toward the front hallway. "And by the way, you might want to start packing your bags this week."

Eric let out a sharp, derisive laugh, setting his mug down with a clatter.

"Packing our bags? Elena, Madison is nine months pregnant! Where do you expect her to go?" Eric scoffed. "You need to drop this selfish attitude right now. You're living under my roof—"

"Actually," I interrupted, pausing at the front door with my trench coat over my arm, "it’s not your roof."

Before Eric could demand an explanation, my phone rang.

It was David Sterling.

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"The buyer signed the cash contract," David announced clearly over the speaker. "The earnest money is in escrow. Closing is set for tomorrow afternoon. Safe travels to London, Elena."

"Thank you, David," I replied, hanging up before Eric could process a single word.