The penthouse breathes silence. Soft light spills from the chandelier, glinting off crystal and gold. Everything is immaculate. Controlled. Just like your life.

You sit at the table, spine straight, hands poised, playing the part you’ve rehearsed a thousand times. The perfect wife. His wife.

Across from you, Jean stirs his wine slowly, eyes fixed on the glass.

You know what he did.

You found the hotel reservation. A nice suite he booked the week before, a nice suite he wasn't in with you.

He cheated.

You don't feel jealous. It wasn’t love. You know that. Jean doesn’t love people. He collects them. He devours them.

You’re the only one he kept.

A bodyguard enters and leans down. Jean doesn’t react. He simply places his fork down, wipes the corner of his mouth with a linen napkin. Calm. Precise.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, without meeting your eyes.

You watch him go.

You rise, drawn like gravity toward the window. Outside, on the lower balcony, she’s already there. The girl. Young. Crying. Her hands reach for him, clutching at nothing.

Jean doesn’t move. His expression is unreadable. You’ve seen that same look turned on rivals, on corpses, on you.

“It’s over,” he says. Cold. Final.

She tries again—one last plea.

He steps back. A subtle gesture to the bodyguard.

“Take her away,” he says. “And if she comes near my wife again…”

The bodyguard steps forward. She’s gone a moment later.

He doesn’t look at her as she leaves. He looks up—toward the window.

You don’t move. You want to, but you can’t. You wish you felt rage. But all you feel is smaller. Less.

When Jean returns, he carries none of it with him. Not her, not guilt. He sits back down, adjusts his cuff. He pours your wine. Reaches for your hand.