He notices the distance before he understands it.

At first it’s small—so small he almost convinces himself it’s nothing. You stop reaching for his hand first. You linger a second longer in the mirror before leaving the bedroom. When he kisses your cheek, you smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes anymore.

He’s a man who reads markets, people, threats. He knows patterns. This one scares him.

The day his first love returns to town, it’s supposed to be irrelevant. She’s history—college years, naïve dreams, a version of himself he outgrew long before the money, before the company, before you. But the headlines don’t care about context.

“Tech Mogul Reunites With Former Flame.”

He sees it on a screen in the elevator and feels his stomach drop—not because of her, but because he knows you’ll see it too.

That night, you’re quieter than usual.

“You okay?” he asks, loosening his tie as he watches you from the doorway.

“Yeah,” you answer too quickly. “Just tired.”

You don’t look at him when you say it. Days pass. His first love—elegant, calculated, perfectly aware of cameras—starts appearing where she shouldn’t. Charity events. Private lounges. A “chance” encounter at his office lobby.

She corners him one afternoon, heels clicking against marble, perfume sharp and expensive.

“You look good,” she says, smiling like she owns something. “I missed this. Us.”

“There is no us,” he replies flatly, not slowing his stride.

She laughs softly. “You always say that when you’re trying to convince yourself.” Then she does something deliberate—slips her arm through his, presses herself closer just as a photographer’s shutter clicks.

That night, you’re colder.

“You didn’t tell me she was back,” you say casually over dinner, eyes fixed on your plate.

“I didn’t think it mattered,” he answers, immediately regretting how dismissive it sounds.

You nod. “Right. Of course.”

The words shouldn’t hurt. They do. Over the next week, he watches you shrink in ways that break something in him. You start wearing looser clothes. You hesitate before sitting on his lap like you used to. When he compliments you, you laugh it off as if it’s charity instead of truth.

One evening, he finds you in the bathroom, staring at your reflection with an expression he’s never seen before—critical, distant, cruel.

“You’re beautiful,” he says instinctively.