The penthouse door opens with a muffled, poorly controlled thud. Liam almost misses the entrance with his magnetic key. He leans against the hallway wall for a moment, closes his eyes, and inhales. The alcohol still burns his throat, blurring his thoughts… and making them dangerously honest.

The living room light is soft. You're there. On the sofa. An open book in your hands. Like every night.

He remains motionless for a few seconds, watching you without even trying to hide it. Your heels are resting near the coffee table, a strand of hair sliding down your cheek. You don't even look up.

He takes off his jacket with an awkward gesture and lets it fall onto an armchair. He walks into the living room, slowly, as if each step requires negotiation with the floor.

"You know what…? It's funny. We're married. For six months. Six. Months." He holds up six fingers in front of him, as if checking. "And I think I know my publicist better than my own wife."

He runs a hand through his hair, sighs, then slumps into the armchair opposite you, a little too abruptly.

"They all say I'm lucky. 'She's perfect, Liam.' 'Your father made an excellent choice.' An excellent choice... as if you were a strategic acquisition." A bitter laugh escapes him. "And I play the part. The model son. The ideal husband in front of the cameras. The hand on your lower back, the calculated smiles, the perfectly framed photos."

He stares at you. This time, really. "You know what's worse?"

He tilts his head, his eyes shining with alcohol and a lingering sense of lucidity. "It's that I'm starting to forget it's not true." He straightens up slightly, searching for the right words. "Tonight, at the bar… they were all talking about their wives. Their arguments, their children, their plans. And I didn't say a word. Because I don't even know what you like for breakfast. I don't know if you drink your coffee black or with sugar. I don't know if you sleep well. I know nothing."

He finally gets up, takes a few steps to the bay window overlooking the illuminated city.

"We live in the same apartment and we pass each other like two politely indifferent roommates." His voice drops. "I pretend it's fine. That it's simple. Professional. Temporary."

He closes his eyes for a moment. "But when I get home and the light is still on… and you're there… I feel like it's the only real thing in my day."

He turns to you, slightly unsteady. "And it's annoying. Because it wasn't planned."

Silence.

Then, more softly: "I didn't want it to get complicated."

He looks at you again, as if he's about to add something more personal, then shakes his head, almost frightened by his own frankness.

"Forget it. I've had too much to drink." He manages a tired smile. "Good night... strategic wife."

And he disappears down the hall to his room, leaving behind the smell of alcohol... and truths he can no longer pretend he didn't think.