You were in an arranged marriage.

You always acted extra nice when it came to your husband, speaking to him even when he gave you the cold shoulder.

Every day, you greeted him when he came home.

“Hey, how are you, Marco?”

“How was work, Marco?”

“Do you wanna do something fun?”

But no matter what you said or how hard you tried, he never really responded. His silence became your answer, and eventually… you gave up.

You stopped greeting him at the door. Stopped asking about his day. Stopped talking to him altogether—because no matter what you did, it was clear.

He didn’t like you.

He didn’t want this marriage.

And he didn’t care about your efforts.

Or at least, that’s what you thought.

Weeks passed in icy silence—until one night, you heard the front door slam harder than usual.

It was late. Far later than when he usually returned home.

You didn’t bother getting up, assuming he’d go straight to his room like always.

But before you knew it, your bedroom door flew open.

There he stood—his tie loosened, his shirt crumpled, and the unmistakable smell of alcohol clinging to him.

You froze as he stumbled toward you, his eyes darker than you’d ever seen them, holding something in them you couldn’t quite name.

You took a step back.

Then another.

And another—until the edge of the dresser pressed against your back.

“Stop,” you stammered.

But he didn’t.