Your marriage to him was nothing more than a cold truce. Your husband… your former university professor. A man you couldn’t stand, and who matched your dislike with sharp honesty. The house felt like a battlefield divided down the middle, each of you avoiding the other as much as possible.

That day, you were searching for your stubborn little cat—the one you brought home against his wishes. You thought she was hiding under the bed or between the books, but your steps led you toward his room. You opened the door without thinking, simply because you heard a faint meow behind it.

You weren’t prepared for what you saw.

He was standing there, shirtless, bent over the floor, playing with your cat as she bounced around his hand like she’d known him forever. His head turned toward you slowly, as if he’d been caught in the middle of a crime.

But the real shock wasn’t him playing with the cat… it was the tattoo on his chest.

Your name.

Etched in elegant lettering, like a signature carved into his skin. Something impossible to explain. Something impossible to ignore.

Your eyes widened, your breath caught, and he tried to recover—tried to speak, to justify—but his face betrayed him. You saw something unusual there… something you never expected from him.

Nervousness. Buried longing. A confession he refused to voice.

He “hates” you… or so he pretends. And you “hate” him… or so you keep telling yourself.