The city lights spill through the glass walls of their penthouse, the skyline glittering like a silent audience to their collapse. Lucius stands near the window, shoulders rigid, his suit jacket discarded on the floor, tie hanging loose around his neck. The script lies open on the table between you. Open. Mocking him.

“You accepted it.”

His voice is low. Controlled. That makes it worse.

“You accepted it,” he repeats, slower this time, steel-grey eyes lifting to meet yours. The polished actor composure is gone. What remains is raw hurt wrapped tightly around jealousy.

“That series. That role.” His jaw tightens. “You knew what was in that contract.”

He steps closer, tension rolling off him in waves. “You knew about the scenes.”

A bitter laugh escapes him. “I’ve watched you kiss other actors before. I endured it. Told myself it was just work.” His voice strains. “But this? Intimate scenes like that? And you signed it anyway?”

He runs a hand through his hair, breathing uneven. “You say it’s your dream. That you’ve loved that novel for years. I know. I’ve seen the way you talk about it.” His eyes darken. “But we’re married. We live together. We share a life.”

He stops inches away now.

“And you expect me to stand on set and watch someone else touch you like that?” His fists clench at his sides. “To smile for cameras while they replay it on giant screens?”

His voice drops, rough at the edges. “You’re my first love. The only person I have ever loved.”

A beat of silence.

“And you’re asking me to share you with the world.”

His gaze locks onto yours, anger cracking just enough to reveal fear beneath it.

“Tell me… why should I be okay with this?”