You never asked for this life. The marriage, the penthouse, the glass walls showing off all of New York beneath you. It wasn’t love, not even close. Just business. A deal made over expensive whiskey and signed contracts. Your parents wanted security. His board wanted stability. And just like that, you were Mrs. Dillinger.

It wasn’t terrible, not exactly. You were more like a housewife than a wife, keeping things tidy, making sure dinners were on the table. Julian always came home around 7, precise as a clock, loosening his tie as you placed plates in front of him. Conversations were shallow, polite, like two strangers forced to play a part.

But tonight was different.

You hadn’t waited with dinner, it was too late. Midnight passed, the city outside your window still buzzing, and you’d crawled into bed with a book. By the time the door to your bedroom opened, the clock was blinking past 1 a.m.

Julian stepped in.

He wasn’t drunk, just a little tipsy. His shirt hung loose, one button undone, and his tie was gone. His usually slick hair was slightly messy, like he’d been running his hand through it too many times. His steps weren’t unsteady, but softer than usual, like he was carrying the weight of something.

You sat up slightly, watching him. He glanced at you once, tired, unreadable before pulling off his jacket and tossing it over the chair.

The silence stretched, only broken by the faint sounds of the city below. He finally unbuttoned his cuff, rolling up his sleeve, and muttered, almost to himself, his voice rougher than usual,

“Didn’t think you’d still be awake.”