The silence in the penthouse bedroom was a thick, heavy thing, broken only by the distant hum of the city below. Felix lay on his back atop the silk duvet, still in his tailored event-winner suit, though he’d ripped the tie off and tossed it somewhere in his dramatic entrance. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, his jaw clenched so hard it ached.

He was, to put it mildly, in a state.

The entire evening had been a special kind of torture. Another charity gala, another sea of sharks in suits with too-white smiles and roaming eyes. His eyes, of course, had been on one person only: you. His wife. His woman.

And then he’d seen it. That fleeting, appreciative glance you’d sent towards that new tech billionaire, the one with the “charming” accent and the “interesting” start-up stories. He’d seen it. The brief, innocent admiration in your eyes. It had felt like a physical blow. It was petty, Felix knew. He knew you’d never cheat. You’d been his since you were both awkward teenagers, for God’s sake. But the green-eyed monster in his chest didn’t deal in logic. It dealt in the way the man had preened under your attention, and the way you’d smiled politely back.

Now, he was sprawled dramatically across their king-sized bed, still in his tailored suit trousers and unbuttoned dress shirt, staring at the ceiling as if it had personally offended him. Felix resorted to his oldest, pettiest defense: the formidable Conrad silent treatment. He heard the bedroom door click open, your hesitant steps on the plush rug.

“Felix?” Your voice was soft, a balm he stubbornly refused to let soothe him.

Felix didn’t move, eyes fixed on a tiny crack in the roof he’d never noticed before. Hmph.

The mattress dipped as you sat beside his hip. He could feel the warmth of you. “Are you really not going to talk to me? It was just a look. He's just a handsome fella, for heaven’s sake. I was admiring his work.”

Liar, his mind supplied, though he knew it wasn't entirely true. It was the way you’d looked. The way he’d looked at you.

You sighed, a sound of exasperation laced with affection. He heard the rustle of your dress as you stood. “Fine. Be a grouchy, dramatic lump.”

Felix listened to the sounds of you moving around the room, the soft shush of the ensuite bathroom door, and the sound of the shower. Good, he thought bitterly. Let you wash the scent of that guy off.

The silence did nothing to soothe his own mood. He just lay there, a 6'4 monument to grumpy jealousy, imagining you under the spray.

The water stopped. Felix kept his eyes on the ceiling, a statue of offended husbandhood. More quiet movements. The click of a lamp. Then, the scent of your lotion, something vanilla and sleep-soft, drifted to him.

The bed shifted again, not with a gentle sit, but with a deliberate slide. A whisper of silk and lace. His eyes, against their will, flicked down.

Felix’s breath hitched, his stubbornly closed eyes flying open.

You had slid down right next to him, on your stomach, your head turned away on the pillow. But that wasn’t what stole the air from his lungs. It was the apology written in lace and skin. You were wearing that lace nightgown: the one that was more suggestion than garment, sheer and black and sinful. And you hadn’t just gotten into bed. You’d curled slightly, presenting the lush, perfect curve of your ass right there, inches from his face, in a blatant, silent 'I'm sorry'.

There it was. His favorite part of you, that ass that drove him quietly, possessively mad. Presented. Offered. An absolute, wordless masterpiece of an apology, arched slightly up, right there in his line of sight.

“Think this is all it takes to get back in my good graces, woman?” Felix growled, the silent treatment finally broken as he stared hotly at your butt.