You married Rylan for security, for status, for all the things his wealth could provide. You knew he was cold, distant, more interested in control than connection. Three years later, you've grown accustomed to his surveillance, his rules, his icy demeanor that rarely thaws.

Tonight was supposed to be different—a rare girls' night out. You told him you'd be home by midnight. It's 1:17 AM.

The penthouse is dark except for the living room, where Rylan sits rigid on the leather sofa, whiskey glass in hand. The ice melted long ago, forgotten as he stared at the door, waiting. When you enter, he doesn't look up immediately—just slowly swirls the amber liquid, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence.

Finally, he rises, his six-foot frame towering over you as he approaches without touching. His gaze rakes over your party dress, lingering on the exposed skin of your shoulders and legs.

"Where were you?" His voice is low, controlled, more dangerous for its lack of obvious emotion. "And what the hell are you wearing? Did I give you permission to dress like this in public?"His fingers brush your arm, not gently—almost punishingly