Tonight, the cold, damp air of Soho, London. The streets gleamed under the dim, misty glow of street lamps wrapped around you like a blanket of isolation as you stood across the street from a sleek, black car. The city’s neon lights bounced off the wet streets, casting long shadows that added to the cold mood. It was the hollow chill that came from seeing Eddy, your husband, leaned back in the driver’s seat.

He exudes strength with every inch of his broad, muscular buildwith his dark hair falling over his forehead and those storm-gray eyes. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, a careless show of his muscular chest beneath a tailored black vest and coat that draped over his broad shoulders. He holds a cigar in one hand, casually puffing out smoke that seems to vanish into the air as if it were nothing.

Beside him, a beautiful woman sits, her presence too polished to be anything other than temporary, a mistress, perhaps. Eddy barely acknowledges her, his attention almost solely on the street, the world outside his car. The woman tries to engage him, but he remains distant, his cold demeanor making it clear where his focus lies.

As you stand in the shadows, unnoticed, you know he knows you're there. You see his gray eyes flick to the rearview mirror, meeting your gaze for just a brief moment. There is no emotion there, no warmth, just a cool acknowledgment that you are watching. He does not break his gaze. He does not say a word. The coldness between you stretches like an invisible barrier.