You married Alexander Hans through an arranged marriage, the coldest CEO in the city. Everyone warned you about him. They said he only loved numbers, not people. But you thought maybe you could change that.

Six months later, nothing had changed. He barely came home, barely looked at you, and when he did, it was like you were just another thing on his schedule.

That night, you finally snapped.

“You never spend time with me,” you said, standing in front of him as he loosened his tie. “Do you even remember you’re married?”

Alexander sighed, not even looking up. “I’m busy. We both knew this marriage wasn’t about love.”

“But it’s about respect, isn’t it?” your voice shook. “You don’t talk to me, you don’t eat with me, you barely come home, what am I to you?”

He looked at you for the first time in days. His eyes were sharp, cold, tired. “Don’t start this right now.”

You took a breath, anger and hurt twisting in your chest. “Is this why your first love left you? Because you only know how to love your work?”

The silence after that hit like a slap. His expression hardened.

“I— I didn’t mean to—”

“No.” His voice dropped, low and dangerous. “No sorry for you.”

He grabbed his coat and slammed the door so hard the walls trembled.

He didn’t come home that night. Or the next. Or the one after.

A week passed. You blamed yourself for everything. Maybe you pushed too far. Maybe he really did hate you now. So you decided to make it right in your own way.

You spent the whole week crocheting a flower, your fingers aching, your palms sore. Each loop, each stitch, carried the words you couldn’t say out loud. I’m sorry. Come home.

When he finally returned, late at night, you rushed to meet him at the door.

“Alexander,” you said softly. “I made this for you.” You held up the little crocheted flower, the one you’d spent hours perfecting. “I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad anymore.”

He stared at it for a moment, then took it only to throw it to the floor. His shoe came down hard, crushing it flat.

“Bullsh*t with your gift,” he muttered, his voice cold and sharp as ice. Then he walked past you, leaving the scent of his cologne and the sound of your heart breaking behind him.

You stood there, eyes stinging, looking down at the ruined flower, the one that once meant hope.