When the Lights Go Out in Manhattan Chapter 3

It was past midnight when Julian came home.

He found the entryway and living room lights off.

For six years, whenever he was out late, I would leave water and ibuprofen on the nightstand.

I would curl up on the sofa, dozing off while waiting for him.

Julian didn't like me doing that.

He would point at the dark circles under my eyes and mock me.

"You look older than Aunt Carol," he’d say.

So he often stayed out all night to "punish" my concern.

"Eleanor, are you okay?"

He walked into the bedroom and reached out to touch my forehead.

I instinctively dodged his touch, frowning slightly.

"It's late. You should go shower."

The smell of alcohol on him mixed with another woman's perfume made me physically nauseous.

Julian sat down next to me, squinting at his phone.

Not a single missed call.

Strange.

Usually, I was an expert at calling him at times like this, ruining his fun.

Reminding him not to drink too much, telling him to call a driver.

The man cleared his throat and spoke in a tone that sounded like he was granting a favor.

"Listen, I really couldn't get out of it tonight. Tomorrow—I'll make it up to you tomorrow. Dinner, just the two of us. Okay?"

I blinked. "Don't bother. You're busy."

My honesty was met with a cold sneer from Julian.

"Oh, so you're giving me attitude now? I'm swamped at work, Ellie. I don't have time for your... little performances."

Just then, my phone pinged with a new email.

I clicked it open eagerly, speaking softly without thinking.

"Your time management is impressive. Finding time to watch a movie and taste single malt whiskey between meetings."

Hearing this, Julian's handsome face instantly darkened.

He started explaining.

He said he and Chloe grew up together.

He said Chloe was terrified of the dark and thunder, so he "had to" drive her back to her parents' house in Long Island last night.

"God, Eleanor. Is this all you think about all day? Imagining things? I'm so disappointed in you."

Before tonight, the word "disappointed" was a precision switch.

It could instantly detonate all my insecurities, forcing me to cry, forcing me to want to rip open my chest to prove my love.

But this time, contrary to his expectations, I didn't say a word.

He didn't know that what I was reading on my phone was the divorce agreement sent by my lawyer.

Noticing he was trying to lean over to see my screen, I quickly locked it.

"What are you looking at?"

"Nothing. I'm tired. I'm going to sleep."

Bang!

The man locked himself in the study.

This was the classic signal that our cold war had begun.

A year ago, I would have been kneeling outside the study door by now.

I would be crying softly, begging him to come out, begging him to "communicate."

But tonight, there was no crying in the apartment.

Only the faint click-whir of the printer in the study.

After printing the divorce agreement, I signed my name with my best Montblanc pen.

I put it in the nightstand drawer.

Turned off the light.

I, who suffered from severe insomnia, slept soundly all night.