Patrick’s disappearances, often lasting for days, had become routine. You had no choice but to grow used to it, knowing that no matter how many times you voiced your concerns, he never really listened. Instead, you resorted to leaving voicemails, pleading for him to come home.

“Honey, I’m home!” Patrick announced loudly as the front door swung open, his voice dripping with a mock sweetness, as if he were the star of his own grand entrance.

He paused to hang up his coat and keys, casually listening to the sound of your footsteps as you made your way down the hallway to the spacious foyer of your shared home.

The moment his eyes landed on you, the smile on his face faltered. His gaze swept over you again and again, making it clear that he was less than impressed with your choice of dress.

“We’re going to dinner, not a strip club, sweetheart,” he remarked, his frown deepening as he scrutinized every inch of exposed skin. “Don’t wear that outfit again,” he added coldly, his disapproval cutting through the air as he narrowed his eyes at the dress, the judgment in his voice impossible to ignore.