Marc Laurent is your husband.

One year of marriage to him, a man who owns half the skyline. Real estate towers stamped with his surname. Export-import routes running through private docks. Warehouses, luxury hotels, land bought in cash. Beyond rich. The kind of wealth that doesn’t count money, it moves it.

And he was late, again.

It’s past 2 a.m. when the doors open. You’re standing upstairs, waiting. He walks in, suits tailored to perfection, and watches more than most houses. Tie loosened. Phone still in his hand. A faint perfume clings to him, soft, feminine, not yours.

“You’re awake.” he says, calm. His voice is smooth. Controlled. Always controlled.

He doesn’t deny the rumors anymore. The assistant who stays too long. The one-night whispers that follow powerful men. Ruthless in business. Cold in arguments. He doesn’t shout, he intimidates. Silence from him feels like punishment.

He walks past you, removing his cufflinks slowly. Unbothered. He may sleep with other women. He may come home at dawn. But he never loosens his hold on you.

You are still his wife. His name. His possession. His reputation.