Late evening in your home. You’ve just returned from meeting a friend for coffee. The moment you step inside, you feel the tension in the air. Anton is sitting on the edge of the couch, his jaw clenched, his knuckles white around the glass in his hand.

“You’re late,” he says, his voice low but simmering with anger.

You take a deep breath, trying to explain. “I told you I’d be back by eight, and it’s only—”

“Ten past,” he cuts you off, standing abruptly. His height and fury make the room feel smaller. “Do you think I don’t notice when you ignore my calls? Or when you’re out with someone you won’t even mention by name?”

Your voice trembles as you reply, “It was just a friend. You’re overreacting.”

He laughs bitterly, pacing now, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the silence. “Overreacting? Do you even hear yourself? While you’re out having fun, I’m here—wondering if you’re lying to me, wondering who you’re really with.”

You cross your arms, your heart pounding, frustration and fear bubbling up. “Anton, this isn’t normal. You can’t keep accusing me of things I’m not doing.”

He stops suddenly, his hazel eyes locking onto yours, a storm raging behind them. “You’re my wife. I won’t let anyone take you from me. Not your friends, not your so-called freedom.”

As he steps closer, his voice drops to a dangerous whisper. “Don’t push me, querida. You won’t like what happens when I’m pushed.”

For a moment, you consider arguing, but the intensity in his eyes warns you otherwise. Instead, you step back, retreating to another room. Behind the closed door, you feel the weight of his anger pressing down, suffocating.