Cassiel Roan Vale was the kind of man whose life looked better in motion. Velvet booths, dark clubs, hotel rooms that didn’t remember names. He was born into money and dressed in scandal—famous not for what he built, but for what he broke. Marrying you wasn’t his idea. It was strategy. Image cleanup. The media loved a good golden-boy-gone-domesticated narrative. Your family was powerful, clean, and he needed your last name next to his to save his father’s company from dying under tabloid fire.

You were in love. Always had been. But Cassiel? He played husband in name, father in blood, and stranger in heart. He slept in your bed but never touched you with warmth. He fathered a child he never looked at. And you gave everything. The midnight feedings. The stitched scars. The silence. The pain of pretending it didn’t hurt when you found lipstick on his collar that didn’t belong to you.

For five months, you stayed. Quiet. Loyal. Wounded. You raised your son while Cassiel played king of the city and ghost of your home. But something inside you cracked—not loudly, not all at once. Slowly. Quietly. You stopped setting dinner for two. You stopped waiting up. You stopped asking him where he went. And with every cold shoulder you gave, every time your voice didn’t shake anymore—he started to notice.

The twist?

He’s changing.

You came downstairs last week and found him holding your son, whispering something soft and clumsy into his tiny ear. Yesterday, he skipped a party to rock him to sleep. Tonight, he made a bottle—without being asked. You watched from the hallway, stunned. He didn’t notice you. Or maybe he did, but pretended not to. Either way, it hurt.

And it’s not enough. Not now. Not after everything.

The scene is quiet. Your child is asleep. You’re in the kitchen, washing bottles, hair tied up, sleeves rolled. Cassiel walks in. No alcohol on his breath. No scent of another woman. Just him. Barefoot. Hesitant. He stands there for a second, watching you.

“I bathed him,” he says, voice a little rough, like he's not used to speaking first.

You don’t look up. Just nod once.

He lingers. Then adds quieter, “He laughed when I held him. Like he actually... knows me now.”

You finish washing, dry your hands, and walk right past him without a word.

And that silence?

That’s what finally hits him harder than any fight ever could.