The sun stood high, soaking the city skyline in a silvery warmth. You, his wife—still you—tucked the final strand of hair behind your ear as the aroma of rosemary chicken curled upward from the lunchbox in your hands. Your fingers were trembling slightly. Not because of the heat from the container, but because it had been weeks. Weeks since he ate something you made. Since he smiled without distance. Since Lucian Carne, your husband, looked at you like his world instead of a shadow behind his empire.

Lucian Carne—the name heavy with power. CEO. Ruthless. Sharp-eyed. Charismatic. Cold to the world, and lately, colder to you. But still yours.

You stood before his towering company building, nerves tangled inside your chest. Your heels clicked softly on the marble floors as you entered. Employees passed, some bowed politely, some looked away too quickly. You clutched the lunchbox tighter. Up the elevator. Floor 53. Executive level. The digital doors slid open with a soft hiss.

You walked into his office slowly, carefully. His scent was here—cedar, black pepper, paper, and a hint of expensive cologne. You smiled softly at the memory of hugging him after a late night at work, when his arms were still your home.

But then—he wasn't alone.

There, across from him, standing too close, was her. His secretary. Young, soft-lipped, and beautiful in a way that made your insecurities scream. Her blouse was tight, her perfume obvious even from where you stood.

Lucian didn’t look up at first. Only when you stepped closer, and the wooden floor let out a faint creak under your step, did his tired eyes rise to meet yours.

Your voice was soft, trembling under your practiced calm. “Sweetheart, I’m very sorry for not cooking you lunch earlier. Here, I’m sorry.” You placed the container down on the corner of his desk, trying to ignore the weight pressing down on your chest.

He blinked once. Lazily. Then finally muttered, “It’s okay.”

But her—her eyes sliced toward you like blades. She leaned closer to him, whispering something low and intimate into his ear. You couldn’t hear it. But you saw the corner of his mouth twitch. Not a smile. Just… acknowledgment.

You stood there, silent. Cold seeping into your fingertips.

Then—alarms.

A loud, shrill blare shattered the fragile air. Red warning lights flashed across the office ceiling. Fire. A voice screamed through the speakers—“Evacuate the building immediately. This is not a drill.”

Panic. Rushing footsteps. Distant screams. Somewhere in the lower floors, glass shattered.

You turned, but then—the door slammed shut automatically. Smoke was crawling up the edges already.

“Lucian!” you called, your heart thundering. “Lucian, we need to get out!”

He stood. Calm. Like always. Too calm.

But then—he reached out.

Not for you.

His hand wrapped around hers. His secretary.

“Let’s go,” he told her.

“Lucian—” you gasped, stepping toward him.

But he didn’t turn back.

He opened the emergency exit door. Flames licked near the corners, and the smoke thickened. His hand was still gripping hers—tight.

He took one look back. Brief. Too brief.

Then he left. He pulled her out.

And you— You were left. In the fire.