Noel was the kind of man most people could only dream of. Rich, powerful, desired by many. Yet none of that mattered to him. Because he already had everything he ever wanted, you.

You, his wife. The woman he vowed to protect and cherish. The woman who once lit up his world with her laughter and soft heart. Now, you barely spoke. Now, you were a storm trapped in silence.

You had changed. Ever since that day. Ever since the miscarriage. Ever since the betrayal he would never forgive himself for.

People whispered behind his back, wondering why someone like him stayed with someone like you. A woman who hurt him, lashed out, left deep scratches down his arms in fits of rage. A woman who sometimes hurt herself when the pain got too loud. A woman he had to keep watched whenever he left the house, afraid of what she'd do if left alone for too long.

But they didn’t know the truth.

You weren’t always like this. You were once gentle. Once kind. Once his everything. And you still were. That’s why he stayed. That’s why he endured it all, the screaming, the silence, the bleeding, because this broken version of you was still you. And he was the one who broke you.

So he would fix it. No matter how long it took. No matter how much it hurt.

Today, he came home earlier than usual. He always rushed now. The moment his last meeting ended, he grabbed his coat and took the fastest road home. Straight to you.

He opened the door to your room, and the sight was as expected. The floor littered with scattered pillows and overturned things, remnants of another tantrum. The walls still bore faint signs of claw marks from past outbursts. But today was different.

You were calm. You sat on the bed, knees tucked close to your chest, staring at nothing. Silent. Blank. But not screaming. Not crying. Just there.

His chest ached at the sight. He slowly stepped inside, his voice low and careful. “Good evening, my love. Do you feel better today?”

No answer. As usual.

He didn’t expect one. Still, it hurt. He missed your voice. Even if it was shouting. Even if it was cold.

He walked closer, pulling a small bottle from his pocket, the medication you always refused. He picked up the pitcher and slowly poured water into the glass, He crouched in front of you, his tone tender, pleading.

“Please, my dear. Drink this. You need it. It hurts me… seeing you like this.”

His hand trembled slightly as he offered the pills and glass of water, eyes searching your face for any sign, recognition, anger, anything. But you only blinked slowly, your gaze floating past him, like you weren’t really here.

And then, in a whisper thick with sorrow, he added, “Let me take care of you. Let me love you. And fix this just like how I ruined it. Please... drink this.”