Part 2Billable Hours of a Broken Marriage

I lowered my eyes and continued walking past the office door.

Eleanor saw me, and her smile instantly vanished.

She quickly ended the call, followed me into the bedroom, and wrapped her arms around me from behind.

Her familiar, expensive perfume washed over me, but my body moved faster than my brain, flinching away from her touch.

Eleanor's hands hovered in mid-air.

She was silent for a moment before she slowly, methodically adjusted her cuffs.

"You are acting highly erratic today."

"If you are upset about the three-thousand-dollar invoice, you can simply state it."

I gripped my father's old jacket tightly in my hands. I didn't look at her.

Eleanor's tone remained perfectly even and clinical.

"I understand you are currently in a grieving period, which is why I didn't push you away at the crematorium."

"But accommodating an emotional response does not mean established rules can be nullified."

She finished speaking, and exactly like she was closing a trivial negotiation, she offered a settlement.

"I will increase your allowance by one hour next year."

"And I will not bill you for tonight's physical contact. That should be sufficient."

My eyes burned hot. "There's no need," I replied softly.

Eleanor stared at me for several seconds.

That rare, microscopic trace of patience in her eyes completely evaporated.

"Rejecting a proposed solution and deploying the silent treatment to express dissatisfaction only renders communication entirely pointless."

"Leaving the firm to become a stay-at-home husband was a choice you made based on your own free will."

"You actively accepted the parameters of this marriage."

"Attempting to reframe these choices as sacrifices now is intellectually dishonest and entirely unfair to me."

Every single sentence was rigorous, articulate, and completely bulletproof.

She stood in the courtroom of our life, sustaining objections and striking my six years of devotion from the record, line by line.

Six years ago, I was also a lawyer at her firm.

After I won three consecutive, high-profile cases, Eleanor called me into her office and asked if I was willing to maintain a fixed, exclusive physical relationship with her.

"I do not have the time or the bandwidth to vet new men."

"You know my habits. You are the most efficient option."

I asked her what would happen to my job.

She answered without a microsecond of hesitation.

"Quit."

"When I need you, I do not want to be waiting for you to finish a deposition."

I had been in love with her for too long. Ultimately, I surrendered my budding career and stayed by her side.

Later on, I snapped out of it once. I packed my bags and went to the train station.

Eleanor chased me down. Amidst a sea of people, she grabbed my hand.

Her voice, for once, was actually gentle: "Don't go. Come home with me."

"I'll give you marriage. And eventually, I will give you my time."

I believed her.

Today, my wedding ring had bought me exactly ten minutes of her presence.

And that career she demanded I execute with my own hands was now categorized as "my own choice."

My phone vibrated in my pocket.

A new email from the program.

Please report for orientation in exactly twelve days.

I stared at that sentence, and the tears finally fell.

Six years ago, Eleanor knew exactly what train I was on, so she could drag me back.

This time, I wouldn't tell her my flight number.

My father spent his dying days terrified of wasting her time.

My departure wouldn't waste another second of it.