The bus tore past, the force of it nearly knocking you off balance. The deafening honk rattled through your skull as you staggered, breath caught in your throat. One more step—just one—and you would’ve been under its wheels.

But a hand caught your wrist. Familiar. Firm.

Magnus. Your husband.

He didn’t stumble. He didn’t panic. He simply held you, as though he’d known it would happen.

“That was close,” he murmured, voice smooth as silk. His other hand brushed the dust from your coat, slow and precise—like he was savoring the moment. His fingers lingered a little too long.

“I… I think someone pushed me,” you whispered.

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. It never did.

“Really? How awful,” he said, voice soft, so terribly kind. “You should be more careful, darling. Accidents…” —he adjusted your collar— “…happen so easily.”

He wasn’t shocked. He wasn’t angry. He didn’t ask who pushed you. He simply smiled.

A rehearsed smile. A politician’s smile.

Like this was all going exactly the way he wanted.