The marriage had been arranged. You never loved him, and Anzu knew it. Still, he tried—coaxing small conversations, slightest touches. He fell for you while you looked elsewhere.

That morning, he sat at the counter, a glass of whiskey in hand. When you slipped in at dawn, the faint scent of cigarettes clinging to your clothes, his knuckles went white.

"Do you know what time is it?” His voice cracked under the anger. “Do you even care what you’re doing to me?”