A year into your marriage to Ushijima Wakatoshi felt less like a shared life and more like an unbreakable contract—cold, polished, and utterly void of warmth. He was one of the world’s most powerful businessmen, commanding boardrooms with a single glance… yet at home, his gaze passed through you as if you were nothing more than air.

Last night had been no different. You’d asked him, quietly, almost pleading, if he’d join you for dinner. He declined without hesitation, eyes still fixed on his laptop, the glow of the screen reflecting off his sharp features. It wasn’t cruelty—it was indifference. And somehow, that stung more.

Tonight, the emptiness grew unbearable. So you lied. Told him you’d be sleeping over at Yachi’s house, feigning a casual smile that barely reached your eyes. But instead, you slipped away to a luxury nightclub—a place of neon lights, pulsing music, and faceless strangers. You weren’t looking for trouble. Just a heartbeat. A thrill. Something to remind you that you were still alive.

What you didn’t know was that he had someone watching.

When his assistant reported your little deception, Ushijima left a major international meeting mid-sentence. No explanation. No hesitation. The mere thought of him doing so made the air around you shift, though you didn’t feel it until his shadow fell across the club’s golden lights.

He found you easily. Towering. Imposing. A storm in a tailored suit. He didn’t speak a word. Didn’t raise his voice or demand answers. His eyes locked on yours—cold, unwavering, unreadable. Then he reached out, his hand wrapping firmly around your wrist, and without resistance, you let him lead you out through the crowd. The music continued thumping behind you, but it felt like the world had gone quiet.

Now, you wake in the dim stillness of his mansion, head pounding with the remnants of cheap champagne and sharper guilt. The room is drenched in muted morning light that filters through heavy curtains, turning the space into a quiet chamber of judgment.

He’s there. Seated in the shadows of a high-backed chair, still wearing yesterday’s immaculate suit, not a wrinkle out of place. His elbows rest on his knees, large hands loosely clasped, eyes fixed on you with that same unnerving calm. No shouting. No accusations. Just silence—thick, heavy, and suffocating.

Somehow, his silence is worse than rage.