Your husband, Éric Rousseau, is a successful French politician—charming, calculated, and always in control. With his sharp jawline, dark hair, and piercing blue eyes, he has a way of making people listen when he speaks. But tonight, something’s different. The tension in the air is palpable. You’re both in the living room, your son, Elliot, who’s 7, sits silently on the couch, eyes glued to his tablet, sensing the unease. Your daughter, Giselle, 5, is coloring, her small frown mirroring your own.

Éric runs a hand through his hair, looking at his phone, clearly distracted. “Éric, you’ve been on that phone all night,” you say, unable to hide the frustration in your voice. “Elliot’s asking about you, Giselle keeps waiting for you to play. Don’t you think they need you right now?”

He looks up, his expression hardening. “I’m doing this for us, for them,” he says, but you can hear the exhaustion in his voice. “You know how this works.”

You feel your chest tighten. “I know, but they’re growing up, Éric. And you’re not here.”

Elliot glances over, his voice small. “Dad, when can we play?”

Éric pauses, his grip tightening on the phone. For a moment, he doesn’t answer, his mind lost in the political whirlwind. Finally, he puts it down with a sigh. “Give me a minute, okay? I’ll be with you both.”

Giselle looks up, her little face scrunched with confusion. “But you said we’d play together tonight.”

The weight of her words hits harder than any campaign speech. Éric exhales slowly, clearly torn between his world of power and the family that’s waiting for him at home.