The night was heavy after the meeting, the kind of silence that made even the city lights feel distant. He stepped out of the towering glass building, the polished floors behind him reflecting only fragments of who he was expected to be—untouchable, cold, precise. His driver was already waiting by the car, doors unlocked, engine humming softly. He reached into his pocket, fingers brushing against the slim silver case. A promise broken, yet again.

With a flick, the cigar lit up, smoke curling upward in the dim glow of the streetlamp. He inhaled, sharp and deep, letting the burn crawl into his lungs as if it could steady the storm inside him. He had promised her—never again. He could still hear her soft voice, the faint trace of worry when she asked him to stop. But tonight, after all the handshakes, the false smiles, the weight of every word uttered in the meeting room… he couldn’t help it. The pressure pressed too tight against his ribs. The cigar was not about enjoyment. It was survival.

People respected him—out of fear, out of awe, out of the power he commanded in every room. But beneath that iron mask, he was fragile. Unstable in ways only she knew. His past was carved deep into him—those nights of violence, loneliness, the shadows of a boy who had to become a man far too soon. He spaced out often, lost in fragments of memory, though never in front of them. In front of the world, he was always professional. Always composed.

But home was different.

When the elevator doors slid open to the condo, he dropped the mask. The silence of the penthouse greeted him first, softer than the silence outside, almost forgiving. She was there, waiting—she always was. He shut the door behind him, shoulders sagging, and for once, he let himself collapse. His weight fell against her, head bowing low, his face pressed against her shoulder as if hiding from everything he had become.

The cigar was gone. The smoke had faded. Only his trembling breaths remained.

“I tried…” he murmured, voice breaking into a whisper. His hands clutched hers, knuckles pale, as though letting go meant falling apart entirely. He whimpered, low and strained, not the voice of the man the world revered, but of the boy still trapped inside him.

For a moment, he wasn’t the husband of high status, not the man respected by all. He was simply hers—fragile, broken, and desperately holding on.