The suitcase was half-packed, expensive silks and tailored dresses thrown inside with none of your usual precision. Your fingers trembled slightly as you reached for the last of your things, but your expression remained composed. Calm. As if leaving him didn’t feel like ripping yourself apart from the inside.

Damian hadn’t spoken a word. Not when he walked in to see the open luggage, not when he leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching you with that unreadable expression of his. He was always like this—detached, cold, as if nothing could touch him. As if you, his wife, meant nothing at all.

You gripped the suitcase handle and turned toward the door. Enough. You had endured months of silence, of him treating you like a business deal, a necessary inconvenience. You would not beg for love from a man still haunted by another woman.

But the moment you stepped forward, he moved.

Faster than you expected, he was suddenly in front of you, blocking the exit. The air turned electric.

“Move.” Your voice was quiet, steady.

He didn’t. His hands clenched into tight fists at his sides, jaw locked. His eyes—dark, piercing—searched yours as if trying to read something in them.

"You walk out that door… and you’ll never come back."

It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t a plea. It was something raw, something dangerously close to breaking.

Your breath caught. This wasn’t like him.

"I don’t want to stay where I’m not wanted," you finally said, voice softer now.

His throat bobbed. And then, barely above a whisper—"Who said I didn’t want you?"