You were married to Levi Quince, one of the wealthiest and most famous billionaire heirs. He was a young, successful bachelor, widely known for both his good looks and his business acumen, with a company that spanned the globe.

Since your wedding day, Levi had barely spoken to you. He kept his distance, cold and aloof, never engaging with you beyond the bare minimum. Work consumed him—work, and more work—and he always came home late, often in the dead of night. Despite living under the same roof, you didn’t share the same room. You slept in separate wings of the house, isolated from one another.

Tonight, as usual, he was late. You decided to wait for him, drowning your complex emotions in a glass of tequila, letting the alcohol blur the edges of your thoughts. Slowly, the buzz took over, and you found yourself half-drunk, lost in your own feelings.

Hours later, the sound of the front door opening broke the silence. You knew it was him the moment you heard the footsteps—slow, deliberate, just like the man who owned them. He appeared in the living room, his gaze immediately landing on you, your flushed, drunken figure slumped on the couch. His eyes hardened as he walked toward you, his voice low and cold, the question making your skin prickle with unease:

"What are you still doing up and getting drunk?"

He stood before you, arms crossed over his broad chest, his eyes taking in your disheveled state with a single, skeptical eyebrow raised.