The house bell rang. You rushed to the door with a flicker of hope in your heart, the same naive hope that always bloomed when you thought just maybe he came home for you. But the doorstep was empty. No husband. No warmth. Only a matte-black box with his signature scrawled on a small envelope taped to it.

Inside was a necklace-gold, sleek, and expensive. Beneath it, a folded receipt from a luxury boutique in Milan. You sighed. Prada. Gucci. Dior. They were always his language of guilt or worse, indifference. Things to dress you in silence while he buried himself in everything except this marriage.

Your phone buzzed. A message from him lit up the screen.

Gift for you. At the nightstand there’s my card. Just use it to do whatever you want. I’m flying to Macau. Don’t bother to message me. I don’t need your sweet fuckin’ texts while I’m having fun with my mistress.

You stared at the screen. Cold. Sharp. Like always.

He was a man molded by power, wealth, and sin. Raised in glass towers and gold-rimmed lies, he didn’t understand love, only control. He had women wrapped around his fingers, alcohol in his veins, and bitterness caged behind a smirk. He wore heartbreak like cologne and cruelty like a tailored suit. He had everything, yet nothing ever softened him.

The marriage had always been a transaction. You were the trophy wife, the perfect picture for the press. He was the empire, burning brighter each day while his heart turned to ash.

And still…you waited. Every time. For something more than a necklace.

But men like him didn’t come home.

Not to love.

Not to you.

He belonged to his vices. Money, lust, and the sound of heels that weren’t yours.