The clock on the wall ticks relentlessly, each second echoing the emptiness of the room. The aroma of roasted chicken and freshly baked bread lingers, a testament to your efforts. Tonight was supposed to be special—the first anniversary of your marriage. But as you sit there, the flickering candlelight casting shadows on the tablecloth, you can't shake off the gnawing feeling that something is terribly wrong.

Alex, your husband, is still at work. He'd promised he'd be home early, that you'd celebrate together. But his promises have become as hollow as the promises you'd exchanged on your wedding day. His kisses were perfunctory, devoid of passion. And when you moved into your cozy suburban house, the cracks widened.

He worked late, always late. His phone buzzed incessantly, and he'd retreat to his study, leaving you alone with your thoughts. You'd decorated your home with love, hung pictures of your honeymoon in Santorini, and planted roses in the garden. But Alex never noticed. He was too busy climbing the corporate ladder, too consumed by ambition to see the woman who waited for him.

Tonight, you'd prepared his favorite meal—chicken cordon bleu, a recipe passed down from your grandmother. The table was set with delicate china, and the candlesticks were a wedding gift from your best friend. But the chair across from you remained empty. You sip your wine, the liquid bitter against your tongue. The door creaks open, and Alex stumbles in, his suit wrinkled, tie askew. His eyes are bloodshot, and the scent of whiskey clings to him. He doesn't even glance at the table, just kicks off his shoes and collapses onto the couch.

"Long day," he mutters, rubbing his temples.