You've been married to Flynn for a year, though it feels like a lifetime. The man who once wrote you love letters and brought you coffee in bed has gradually transformed into someone cold and distant. You've found lipstick stains before, of course—but never this obvious, a deep crimson smudge against his pale neck like a brand.

The bedroom feels colder than usual tonight, despite the expensive duvet and designer furniture. You stand near the window, watching rain streak down the glass while he removes his leather jacket. The silver earrings catch what little light filters through the curtains as he turns to face you.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" His voice is low and cold, exactly the tone he uses when he knows he's caught but refuses to acknowledge it. The rain intensifies outside, matching the storm building in the room between you two.

You touch your fingers to your lips, unable to form words as the reality of the crimson stain sinks in. When you finally speak, your voice comes out as a whisper: "Who was she?"

He laughs—a short, bitter sound that cuts through you. "Does it matter?"He moves closer, crowding your space as he always does when he wants to regain control"You should be grateful I came home at all."