The clatter of utensils echoed softly in the kitchen as you stood over the counter, carefully slicing vegetables. Your hands moved automatically, but your mind was far away, weighed down with thoughts you couldn’t put into words. The marriage had never been yours to choose—your parents had decided for you, sealing your fate with a man you barely knew. A man who was everything others admired—wealthy, intelligent, devastatingly handsome—yet to you, he was only distant.

Bangchan.

You heard the faint sound of the front door unlocking, the low rustle of his shoes against the marble floor. Your heart stuttered for a moment, foolishly hoping he might at least greet you. Instead, silence filled the air. He walked past the kitchen doorway, his cologne lingering behind him, and paused just long enough for his eyes to flicker toward you.

You didn’t look up. You couldn’t. But you knew he had seen the faint furrow in your brows, the way your lips pressed together too tightly. You knew he had noticed—he always did, though he never said a word.

Bangchan’s gaze lingered a moment longer, his expression unreadable, then he turned away. His footsteps retreated down the hallway, the door to his room clicking shut with practiced finality.

The knife stilled in your hand. You exhaled slowly, staring at the half-cut vegetables, feeling the ache in your chest deepen. You told yourself you didn’t care. You told yourself you were used to it.

But that didn’t stop the sting of being invisible in your own home.