“Who else?” he chuckled. “You’re the best doctor in this department. And you always put medical ethics first. For you, ‘do no harm’ isn’t just a phrase.”
A week ago, this news would have sent her soaring. Today, it barely penetrated the thick fog of her personal crisis. A career high and a personal catastrophe—life’s timing could be cruelly ironic.
“That’s a great honor,” she replied. “I’ll need to think about it.”
“Don’t take too long,” Dr. Miller warned. “There are other candidates.”
Eleanor nodded, feeling a strange sense of calm. Life was offering her a new beginning just as her old one was crumbling.
“I’ll let you know my decision in a week,” she said, standing up.
“And, Ellie,” he called out as she reached the door. “Whatever happens, you’ll handle it. I have faith in you.”
His words followed her for the rest of her shift. “Whatever happens, you’ll handle it.” Did he know? Or was it just general encouragement? It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was right.
Eleanor got home earlier than usual, around five. It had been a stressful but productive day. Lives saved, a promotion offered, and a new resolve to uncover the truth about her own husband. The evening was overcast. A fine drizzle fell, settling on her shoulders and hair with a cold dampness. She quietly unlocked the door with her key, avoiding the usual jingle of the key ring. In the entryway were two coats: one man’s, one woman’s, unfamiliar to her. A beige trench coat with a brown belt. Expensive, stylish. A pair of black patent leather stilettos stood next to Andrew’s shoes.
Her breath caught in her throat. It felt like an invisible hand was squeezing her windpipe. So, they weren’t just meeting in restaurants or at her apartment. He had brought his mistress into their home, their sanctuary. From the bedroom, she could hear sounds: the rustle of clothing, a muffled laugh, the creak of the bed. Her bed. The same bed where she had cried so many nights over their failed attempts to conceive, where she had sought comfort, where she had hoped for understanding.
Eleanor froze in the hallway, leaning against the wall. The cool, textured wallpaper pressed against her palm. The room spun, and she felt a wave of nausea. Her heart pounded so hard it throbbed in her temples. She took a deep breath in through her nose. Held it. Exhaled slowly through her mouth. Another one. She counted to ten, just like before a difficult surgery. Rational thought pushed aside the emotion, leaving a cold, crystal clarity.
“Are you sure she won’t be back early?” a woman’s voice, with a distinct, velvety tone, drifted from the room. The same voice she’d heard in the office hallway.
“Positive,” Andrew answered with smug confidence. “She’s on call until seven tonight.”
Eleanor swallowed the lump in her throat and moved slowly down the hall. The hardwood floorboards barely creaked beneath her feet. The bedroom door was slightly ajar. A thin sliver of light cut across the dark hallway carpet. She could hear them breathing. She could smell the perfume—a heavy, cloying scent with notes of jasmine and patchouli. Not her scent. A stranger’s. She pushed the door open. The hinges let out a soft groan, a quiet accompaniment to her racing heart.
On their marital bed sat Andrew and Victoria. Half-dressed. His shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a sparsely haired chest. Her blouse lay on the floor—a pool of cream silk on the dark wood. Their hair was messy, their faces flushed. Around Victoria’s neck was the sapphire necklace. It glittered in the dim light of the bedroom, a defiant splash of color against her bare skin. The smell of foreign perfume, mixed with the heavy, stale air, hit her nostrils. It was sickly sweet, suffocating.
For a second, the room was utterly silent. So quiet that Eleanor could hear their ragged, shallow breaths. Then Victoria let out a short, sharp cry, pulling the sheet up to cover herself. The fabric rustled like dry autumn leaves. Andrew scrambled up, his face draining of color. The whites of his eyes looked unnaturally bright against his pale skin.
“Ellie, I…!” he stammered, but she raised a hand, stopping the flow of words. Her palm hung in the air, steady and decisive, like a surgeon’s before an incision.
“Don’t bother,” her voice was unnaturally calm. No tremor, no break. “I understand completely.”
She looked at them, and inside, she felt nothing: no white-hot rage, no sobs. Just a cold emptiness. An almost clinical detachment, the same way she watched a pulse on a monitor. Thump, thump, thump. Only now, she was tracking her own heartbeat—steady, calm. Too calm for a situation like this.
“I’ll make dinner,” she said finally, surprising herself with her composure. “Get dressed and come down to the dining room. I think we have some things to discuss.”
With that, Eleanor turned and walked out, closing the door gently behind her. She heard a frantic, hushed whisper.
“Victoria, just…” Andrew was saying, his voice shaking with panic.
She didn’t care. A strange sense of relief washed over her: now she knew the truth. No more doubts. No more hopes. No more illusions. It was an almost physical sensation, like shrugging off a heavy backpack.
In the kitchen, she flipped on the light. Bright lamps illuminated the spotless countertops. She took ingredients from the refrigerator: cold, slick vegetables, a firm cut of beef. Her hands trembled slightly, but otherwise, she was a picture of composure. She put on some classical music—Vivaldi. The quiet, measured notes of the violin were the antithesis of the storm that should have been raging in her soul.
The knife tapped a steady rhythm against the cutting board. Thump, thump, thump. Beef, onions, spices. Everything as usual. As if it were just another Tuesday night. Water in a pot slowly came to a boil, releasing clouds of steam. Oil sizzled and popped in a pan, filling the kitchen with a familiar, comforting aroma. The sound of the knife drowned out her thoughts. The main course would be beef stroganoff, Andrew’s favorite. Tender beef, mushrooms, a sour cream sauce. In another pot, she set potatoes to boil, the white tubers sinking into the bubbling water with a soft splash. On a third burner, a sauce simmered. Everything was precise, measured, like a surgical procedure.
A plan formed in her mind. Clear, calculated, and ruthless. As she chopped the onion, she saw a flowchart of her next steps, like a surgical plan for a complex operation. As she and Andrew used to joke at dinner parties with friends: revenge is a dish best served cold. Well, her revenge would be ice-cold.
The sound of cautious footsteps behind her. A creak of the floorboards. Quiet breathing. Eleanor didn’t turn around, continuing to stir the sauce with a wooden spoon. The aroma of spices rose from the pot, enveloping her in a thick veil.
“Ellie,” Andrew’s voice was hesitant. “We need to talk.”
“Of course,” she said, turning and wiping her hands on her apron. “Over dinner. Victoria, please, come in. Don’t just stand there.”
Her husband’s mistress stepped uncertainly into the kitchen. She looked lost. A black skirt, a white blouse, perfectly styled hair. The sapphire necklace was still around her neck.
“I should probably go,” she mumbled.
“No, no,” Eleanor smiled. “Please, join us. I’ve been wanting to meet you, Victoria. Andrew has told me so much about you.”
The lie slipped out easily, effortlessly. Victoria glanced at Andrew, who gave a nearly imperceptible nod: “Stay.” His face was a mask of confusion. He had clearly expected a scandal, tears, broken dishes. Not this chilling calm.
“Have a seat,” Eleanor gestured to the chairs. “Dinner’s almost ready. Wine?”
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