Mr.CEO, not Yours Anymore

The faint hiss of water from the master bathroom told me Elias was finally home. It was past three in the morning. I stood outside the door, clutching the sleeve of my robe, my heart hammering against my ribs. I had something to ask him—something that had been sitting on my tongue for weeks. But I hesitated, as I always did, afraid that once the words left my mouth, they would shatter the fragile peace we’d built. Then I heard it. A rhythm beneath the water. Low, uneven breaths. A muffled groan. My stomach dropped. I knew that sound. I knew what he was doing, and the knowledge hit me like a physical blow. Three years. Three years of marriage, and we had never been together—not once. Not truly. And now I understood why. He preferred his own hand. He preferred the ghost of someone else. His breathing quickened, and in the final, shuddering release, he gasped a name—“Mira.” The world tilted. Mira. His college sweetheart. The one who had left him broken. The one he still worshipped from a distance. I pressed my palm so hard against my mouth that I tasted blood. I turned to flee, but my traitorous leg—the one that had been crushed in the accident—gave way. I stumbled into the vanity and crashed to the tile floor. “Nora? Is that you?” Elias’s voice came through the door, still rough, but forcing itself into calmness. “I—I needed the bathroom. I didn’t know you were in there,” I choked out, scrambling to pull myself up. But the floor was slick, my hands useless, and I only made it worse. By the time I found my footing, he was already stepping out. His white robe hung loosely; the belt cinched tight. “You fell. Let me help you.” He reached for me, but I flinched away. “I’m fine,” I said, my voice brittle as old paper. I steadied myself against the wall and limped past him—back to our bedroom, back to my side of the vast, empty bed. I used to have strong legs. Beautiful ones. I used to dance. Now I could barely walk without a wobble, and the shame of it burned hotter than any bruise. Elias followed, his tone gentle, concerned. “Does it hurt? Let me see.” “It’s nothing.” I burrowed under the duvet, hiding my face, my body, my humiliation. “Are you sure?” He sounded genuinely worried, which only made it worse. “Yes.” I turned my back to him. “Just let me sleep.” “All right. Oh—it’s our anniversary today. I left your gift on the nightstand. Open it in the morning.” I didn’t need to unwrap it. I already knew what was inside. The same oblong box. The same watch. I had received one on our first anniversary, another on our second. This would be the third. My drawer already held two of them, untouched. The light clicked off. The mattress barely dipped as he lay down on his edge of the bed. The space between us could have held three more people. Neither of us spoke of Mira. Neither of us spoke of the bathroom. I lay rigid, staring at the ceiling, my eyes burning. I had loved him since high school. He was the golden boy—brilliant, untouchable—while I spent my days in the dance studio, invisible. Then came that summer after graduation. I found him drunk, weaving into traffic. I pushed him out of the way, and the car hit me instead. I lost my graduate school scholarship. I lost my future. He married me out of guilt, out of gratitude, out of duty—never out of love. For three years, I told myself that time would heal him. That my devotion would eventually fill the hollow Mira had left. But last night proved me wrong. Even in his most private moment, it was her name he called. I pulled out my phone and stared at the email I had read a hundred times—an acceptance letter from a university abroad. The very thing I had planned to discuss with him that evening. Now there was no need. Our three-year sentence was finally coming to an end. Morning came. I pretended to sleep as he spoke to the housekeeper, Margot. “I have a business dinner tonight. Tell Nora not to wait up.” He came back to check on me. I kept my eyes shut, my pillow soaked with tears. I usually laid out his clothes, but today I didn’t. He dressed himself and left without a word. When the front door clicked shut, I finally opened my eyes—swollen, raw, empty. My study alarm buzzed, but I silenced it. I scrolled mindlessly through videos, my thoughts a tangled mess, until a familiar face stopped my thumb. The account was new: Mira W. The video was from last night. Loud music. Glasses clinking. A chorus of voices shouting, “Three, two, one! Welcome back, Mira! Cheers!” And there, in the center of the frame, raising his glass with a smile I hadn’t seen in years—was Elias. I closed the app. I closed my eyes. And for the first time in three years, I let myself imagine a life where I wasn’t the one left behind.