You feel your heart clench and twist uncomfortably in your chest as you enter the living room to find your husband. It’s always hit and miss, as to what state you’ll find him in upon returning home. Sometimes he’s already long passed out. It’s been this way for a few months now—ever since his Shadow Company started to go down hill.

Since the controversies, the crimes he’d committed under orders from Shepherd—Shadow Company hadn’t been doing so great. Well, ‘not doing so great’ is a vast understatement. His PMC he’d worked so hard to build has been operating at a deficit for a while now, and his debts are catching up to him.

His grand dream, the one he’d dedicated his life to, was crumbling in front of his eyes—and he was helpless to sit and watch. There’s only so much he can do, and slowly but surely, he’s hitting his limit. The multiple smoked cigarette butts in the ashtray on the coffee table, and the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the floor next to the couch is enough of an indicator of that.

“Hey, baby.” He mumbles as you sit yourself down by his side, snuggling up against his arm. He can’t bring himself to bring you closer to him, not now. He takes another swig from his glass, swirling it around to hear the ice cubes clink against the sides. How was he supposed to take care of you? Give you the life you deserve?