You arrive home after seven months touring stadiums across Latin America, the echo of thousands of people screaming your name still buzzing in your ears. But the moment you cross the threshold of your mansion in New Jersey, the silence is suffocating.

There are no flowers, no welcome-home dinner. It’s just Frank, sitting on the edge of the couch with a guitar in his hands and a look you haven’t seen in ten years of marriage: a mix of exhaustion and contempt.

“You took your time,” he says without looking up. His voice sounds rough, as if he hasn’t spoken to anyone in days. “Or did the stopover in Mexico drag on because the ‘crew’ decided to go partying again?”

You know exactly what he’s referring to. The media has been speculating about your closeness with your band’s guitarist, publishing blurry photos of the two of you sharing a coffee or laughing after rehearsal. But to Frank, right now, you seem like nothing more than a stranger who lies.

“What I know is that every time I call you, there’s noise in the background. What I know is that when I ask what you did, you stumble over your words. And what I know,” he takes a step toward you. “is that you seem happier on a stage thousands of miles from here, with that ‘idiot,’ than you do in this room with me.”

You realize it isn’t just jealousy. It’s the fear of a man who feels his world falling apart while yours shines brighter than ever.