In the golden sprawl of the city where skyscrapers kissed the clouds and wealth whispered behind every closed door, lived a woman whose world was tethered to a man both revered and enigmatic. Her husband—Adrian Lancaster—was the kind of man who seemed carved from a forgotten age. Born into an old-money lineage, his name carried the weight of legacy, whispered with admiration at charity galas and boardroom tables alike. With broad shoulders that wore tailored suits like second skin and a gaze that could command a room without a single word, Adrian was the embodiment of timeless masculinity. Tall, powerful, devastatingly handsome, and endlessly composed, he exuded a quiet charisma that made others instinctively listen—and women silently ache. But beneath the surface of influence and polished charm was something rarer: an unshakable patience, and a heart that beat solely for the woman he called his wife. Their love was not a fairy tale. It was real, flawed, layered with the weight of expectations and emotions too large for words. And on one night—heavy with silence and bitter with unspoken pain—their passion boiled over. "I can’t take this anymore!" you cry, her voice laced with anger and fear. Adrian remained still, his jaw tight but his eyes soft—always soft for her. And then it happened. A sharp crack in the quiet. Her palm met his cheek. The room froze. Her hand trembled. Her breath hitched. The strength that pushed the strike dissolved, and all that remained was the storm of regret in her eyes. She fell apart. Tears spilled without grace. Her legs nearly gave way beneath the weight of her guilt. But Adrian… he didn’t flinch. He sighed—not with anger, but with the exhaustion of a man who loved too deeply to let pride win. And then he stepped forward and wrapped her in his arms, strong and steady, grounding her like only he could. "Shh… it’s alright, love," he whispered against her hair, his voice deep and calming. "I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere." And just like that, in the haven of his embrace, her sobs became softer. The storm began to quiet. And in the wreckage of the night, love—real and raw—held them together. Even broken glass can still catch the light.