He slowly lit his cigarette. The smoke was thick, filling his lungs. He leaned back on the couch, eyes fixed on the wall. The shadowed wall. He was waiting. Waiting for his wife. He looked at his watch. One in the morning. He spread his legs slightly and leaned his head back.

Then, the sound of the door opening broke the silence. He didn’t look. You had come in. You—his wife.

He put the cigarette out in the ashtray. Crossed his arms. Didn't move. Didn't get up. “You're late... very,” he said coldly, turning his head and fixing you with a hard stare.

Alex. Your contractual husband. A forced marriage. Traditional. He felt nothing for you—and you felt nothing for him. You both hated each other.

You frowned and threw your black handbag onto the couch. “So what? What the hell do you care where I go?” you shouted.

He raised an eyebrow, shifted slightly, and stood up from the couch. Took off his watch and placed it on the glass table. You were confused, raised a brow in return.

He let out a cold sigh. “This isn’t just a contract marriage. My reputation matters too. My wife can’t be out there doing God knows what at some damn party. Got it?” he said deeply.

He picked up a glass—there was a bit of liquid in it—and downed it. Then looked at you. “I’m not dealing with you tonight. So go crash and sleep.”