Too Late, Husband: Watch Me Shine

Eloise POV:

Each step away from Dawson and Campbell was a monumental effort, a desperate struggle against the searing pain in my abdomen and the crushing weight of betrayal. I didn't look back. I couldn't. The hospital exit loomed, a beacon of escape. Once outside, the cool air did little to soothe the fire raging within me, but it sharpened my resolve.

My phone felt heavy in my shaking hand as I navigated through my contacts. I found the number for Marcus Thorne, a sharp divorce attorney recommended by a former colleague. "Marcus," I said, my voice surprisingly steady, "I need your help. I want a divorce. Immediately."

He listened patiently, his calm professionalism a stark contrast to the chaos of my life. "From what you've told me, Eloise, you have a very strong case. Embezzlement of marital assets, emotional abuse, public humiliation, and potential physical assault. We can get you a significant settlement."

I nodded, though he couldn't see me. "I don't care about the money, Marcus. Not really. I just want him out of my life. I want peace." The words felt hollow, even to me. I was exhausted, bone-tired from years of fighting, years of pretending, years of being the strong one.

I gave him my current address, a vague sense of dread already settling in. Our home. The house we had built our dreams in. It no longer felt like mine. It felt contaminated.

The taxi ride home was a blur of muted cityscapes and throbbing pain. As the car pulled up our driveway, a sound pierced the twilight quiet: Campbell's high-pitched, delicate laughter, tinkling from within my house.

My blood ran cold, then surged with a fresh wave of fury. He had brought her here. To our home. The audacity, the utter disregard. It was a fresh, brutal slap in the face.

I pushed open the front door, the key scraping loudly in the lock. The scene inside froze me to the spot. Campbell was curled on my sofa, wrapped in my favorite cashmere throw, sipping tea from my delicate porcelain cup. Her blonde hair was splayed across my embroidered pillow, and her bare feet rested on my coffee table. Dawson was in the kitchen, humming softly, clearly making dinner. The sight of them, so domesticated, so at home in my space, was a punch to the gut. They looked like an old married couple, settled and comfortable.

He looked up, a slight frown on his face when he saw me. "Eloise? You're home. I didn't expect you back tonight." His voice was casual, as if finding his mistress lounging in our living room was perfectly normal.

Campbell startled, dropping the cup with a clatter. It didn't break, but the sound was jarring. "Oh, Eloise! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to intrude, but Dawson insisted I come back here to rest after-"

"Shut up, Campbell," I cut her off, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. All the anger, the pain, had coalesced into a cold, hard resolve. I looked at Dawson, my eyes like chips of ice. "What is she doing here, Dawson?" My voice was barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of years of resentment. "Is this what our home is now? A shelter for your mistress? A trophy room for your conquests?"

His brow furrowed, a flash of annoyance in his eyes. "Eloise, don't be crude. Don't be so… sordid. She's recovering. She had a traumatic experience at the hospital, you saw how you treated her." He gestured vaguely, defensively. "She needs somewhere quiet, safe. Her own family isn't exactly supportive, you know her story."

"Her story?" A bitter laugh escaped my lips. "I know her story. It's the same story you've been telling me for months, the one that cost us $250,000 and shattered my very last shred of trust in you."

He took a step towards me, his hand reaching out, a familiar, placating gesture. "Eloise, please. Just calm down. I know you're angry, and you have every right to be. But this... this is the last time, I swear. Just let her recuperate here for tonight, and tomorrow, I'll make sure she finds another place. I'll cut off all contact. I promise. We can fix this. We can go back to how things were. Please, Eloise. Let's just go back to being us." His voice was thick with what sounded like genuine regret, a desperate plea for reconciliation.

His words tasted like ash in my mouth. I had heard "last time" too many times to count, and each promise had hollowed me out a little more.