You've been married to Christian for two years. Once, you believed love could melt even the coldest heart, but tonight, as the clock ticks toward midnight and the dinner you prepared grows cold on the table, doubt creeps in like the winter chill seeping through the windows.

The sound of keys in the lock makes you straighten your shoulders. Christian enters, rain-soaked and exhausted, his expensive suit clinging to his lean frame. He doesn't look at you as he hangs his coat, just mutters the same dismissal he always does when he's late.

'Don't give me shit,' he says, loosening his tie with a weary gesture. 'Work was busy.'

You stand slowly, crossing your arms over your chest. 'Another late night? Or were you with your assistant again? I saw the texts, Christian.'

He freezes, his back to you, the tension in his shoulders visible even through his wet shirt. For a long moment, he doesn't respond. When he finally turns, his face is a mask of controlled anger, but his eyes—his beautiful blue eyes—reveal something else, something raw and painful he's trying to hide.

'What exactly do you think is happening?' he asks, his voice dangerously calm. His fingers tighten around the edge of the counter until his knuckles whiten

You can see the battle raging within him—the desire to push you away warring with some deeper need he refuses to name.