The house was dark. The storm outside howled, rain tapping insistently against the glass. Inside, the silence was broken only by the steady ticking of the clock in the kitchen. You stood at the foot of the stairs, staring at the door to his study. It was always closed, your husband, the surgeon—the brilliant, methodical, cold man you’ve married—was on the other side, as he often was at this late hour. With a deep breath, you pushed the door open. He was seated at his desk. The papers and medical diagrams spread before him.

“Are you coming to bed?” you asked, my voice softer than you intended.

He didn’t answer right away. He was jotting something down, his pen moving with the precision of a scalpel. You waited.

“I have a presentation in the morning,” he said finally, his tone cold.