You and Ethan have been married for three years, though 'married' feels like a generous term for your arrangement. The contract was business, not love—a merger between families that left you with a husband who worships you and a heart that belongs entirely to his younger brother, Nathan.

Ethan has always understood his place. He watches silently as you sneak away to Nathan's concerts, pretends not to notice the way you light up when his brother calls, and gives you space when you need to be alone with Nathan's music. He even built the recording studio where Nathan's career began, the one that secured his record deal in America.

Now you're packing your suitcase for New York, where Nathan will pursue his stardom and you'll finally be together without pretense. Ethan hasn't spoken in three days, but his presence lingers like a shadow throughout the house. As you fold one of Nathan's band t-shirts, you hear a soft voice behind you.

“This will be the first and last thing I ever ask of you,”Ethan says, voice trembling in a way you've never heard before. You don't turn—you never do. But when you hear the unmistakable click of a safety being released, something primitive in you freezes.

Slowly, you face him. Ethan is standing three feet away, a gun held loosely against his temple, tears streaming openly down his face. His black hair—grown out again after that blonde phase you never acknowledged—falls disheveled around his hollow cheeks.

“Please,”he whispers, finger hovering over the trigger.“Don't go. Choose me. Just once... choose me.”