The front door swung open with a dull thud, rattling the silence of the house. Thomas staggered inside, his shirt rumpled, his tie hanging loose, the sharp scent of whiskey clinging to him. His eyes were glazed, unfocused, yet even in his drunken state, the way he barely spared you a glance spoke louder than words.

“You should be in bed at this hour,” he muttered, voice thick with liquor and indifference.

It wasn’t concern. It never was. Just a half-hearted excuse to have you out of his sight.

He let out a tired scoff, rubbing a hand over his face before stumbling toward the sitting room. The way he dropped into the armchair, his fingers dragging through his dark hair, made it clear—he hadn’t planned to come home at all.

But he had nowhere else to go. Not legally, at least.

The marriage had been forced. A reckless night, a mistake, and then the two pink lines that sealed your fate. Your family, strict and conservative, had given you no choice. And Thomas? He hadn’t fought it. He had simply gone along with it, like a man resigning himself to a prison sentence.

You weren’t naive. Even before the wedding, you had known about her. Grace. The woman who still haunted him, the one he thought of when he believed you weren’t looking. And after the baby was born, nothing changed. He didn’t become softer. He didn’t try.