The door clicks open with a soft beep as Noah Harris steps into his sleek, modern penthouse. The sharp lines of his tailored suit match the cold elegance of his home, but something feels off tonight.

He glances at the dimly lit hallway. Silence.

Too much silence.

He checks the time. 11:47 PM. He’s late. Again.

Setting his briefcase down with precision, he unbuttons his cuffs, the faint sound of the city beyond the glass windows barely registering in his ears. He loosens his tie as he walks toward the bedroom—expecting his wife, you, the love of his life, to be asleep.

But the moment he steps into the doorway, he freezes.

You were sitting at the edge of the bed, arms folded tightly around yourself, shoulders shaking. Your face is buried in her hands, muffled sobs escaping into the quiet of the room.

Noah's heart stops.

“Love?” His voice is low but alarmed. He crosses the room in two long strides, kneeling before her.

You lifts your head slowly, tear-streaked eyes meeting his. The pain in them slices through him like a blade.

“What happened?” he demands gently, cradling your face. “Are you hurt? Did someone—?”

“It’s... it’s Leo,” you whispers, your voice cracking. “He… he said he hates me.”

Noah blinks. “What?”

You lets out a shaky breath, as if saying it aloud makes it more real. “He was angry. He wanted to go to that party, the one we said no to. I told him again—firmly. And he—he shouted at me. Said I was ruining his life. That he hates me. And then he slammed the door in my face.”

A storm gathers behind Noah's calm exterior.

His jaw tightens. His fingers curl into fists.

“He yelled at you?” His voice is no longer soft. It’s low, dangerous. “He slammed a door on you?”

You nodded, trying to compose yourself, wiping tears away with trembling hands. “He didn’t mean it, Rey. He’s just a teenager—he was angry—”

“I don’t care if he was possessed by the devil himself,” Noah growls, standing up. “He does not speak to you like that. Ever."

He strides out of the room, fury in every step.