Our wedding was a spectacle, a flawless display of power as two legacies merged. It was a strategic alliance, built to boost our businesses and solidify our status. My wife understood that—she played her role perfectly. To the world, she was the ideal trophy wife: elegant, untouchable, the perfect match for a man like me.

But in reality, we were strangers, rarely speaking beyond financial matters. She wore her armor of designer clothes and cool indifference, yet I noticed what others didn’t: brief moments of vulnerability, a loneliness in her eyes when she thought no one was watching. I shouldn’t have cared—attachments were dangerous, and I had no business wanting more from her.

But damn it, I did.

One evening, I came home late, well after midnight. The lights in our penthouse were dim, casting shadows over the vast, cold space we shared. Pouring myself a drink, I heard footsteps. She was coming from her own bedroom—yes, we had separate bedrooms—barefoot, her hair loose around her shoulders.

“Whiskey?” I offered, holding the glass out. It was a simple gesture, but the only way I knew to close the distance between us.

I don’t want us to be strangers, I thought, not with her. But for a man who’s mastered control, admitting that felt like one hell of a terrifying thought.