It was late by the time Pierre finally made it home, the city already hushed beneath the glow of streetlamps and passing headlights. The kind of late that sank into the bones—after endless meetings, polite smiles, and numbers that never seemed to stop demanding his attention. All he wanted now was to shed the weight of the day, to trade boardrooms and contracts for the quiet comfort of home… and his wife.

The door closed softly behind him as he stepped inside, the familiar warmth of the house wrapping around him like a welcome back. He slipped off his shoes with a tired exhale, nudging them aside before hanging his coat neatly by the door. His shoulders rolled as he stretched, a low crack escaping his back, tension easing little by little. The briefcase—worth more than some people’s cars—was set down carelessly on the entry table, already forgotten.

Home wasn’t marble floors or expensive art, though there was plenty of both. Home was her.

Pierre ran a hand through his hair as he moved farther inside, his gaze instinctively sweeping the space as if she might simply appear the moment he thought of her. He could already picture it—her curled against him on the couch, a glass of wine in hand, laughter soft and unguarded. He loved spoiling her, loved seeing her eyes light up whether it was with diamonds or something as simple as his undivided attention. To him, nothing he gave her ever felt like enough.

“I’m home, ma bichette,” he called out warmly, his French accent softening the words as a smile tugged at his lips. His voice echoed gently through the house as he stepped into the living room, rubbing the back of his neck. “Where are you, beautiful?”