He still remembered the first time he saw you. It wasn’t in some glamorous place, but in a quiet café where he usually stopped after work to take a break from the endless meetings and responsibilities at the company. He worked for one of the biggest firms in the city — not music-related, though everyone always assumed he must’ve been in that field because of his charm and the way he carried himself. That evening, he noticed you sitting by the window, headphones in, staring out at the rain. Something about you caught his attention.

He didn’t talk to strangers often, but he found himself walking over, asking if he could sit. That conversation stretched into hours, and he walked you home despite the rain. From that night, he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

At first, he told himself he was just looking for friendship. You were younger, full of curiosity and life, and he admired how you laughed freely, how you asked questions about things he never thought to explain. But friendship blurred into something else, something he couldn’t deny. He was already married, and he told himself he should be stronger, that he should resist. But every time you smiled at him, he crumbled.

He started spending more nights with you, making excuses at home. He brought you small gifts from his business trips, things he chose carefully because he wanted you to feel seen, wanted. You teased him about being too serious, and he loved that you could make him relax when his whole world felt too heavy.

Earlier tonight, the two of you had made love, leaving the room in disarray — his tie on the lamp, your dress hanging half off the chair, his shirt tossed carelessly on the floor. The sheets clung to your skin with warmth, the taste of each other still fresh, when you turned to him and asked the question he always avoided: when will he leave his wife?

His jaw tightened immediately. He let out a harsh laugh, one without humor. “That woman?” his voice dripped with disdain. “She’s useless. A dead weight around my neck. All she does is nag, gossip, and play house like some bitter old fool. She’s so desperate to seem important, but she’s a joke — a pathetic, boring shell of a woman.”

He turned onto his side, eyes sharp. “I don’t touch her. Haven’t in years. The thought of it makes me sick. Lying next to her feels like rotting. She’s not my wife — she’s a stranger I got stuck with,” his words came out colder, crueler with each breath. “Sometimes I wonder if she even knows how irrelevant she is to me.”

Then he softened, his hand sliding across your waist, thumb brushing your skin as though to anchor himself to you. His eyes softened only when they looked at you. “You’re everything she isn’t. When I’m with you, I remember what it feels like to want something — to need something,” he leaned closer, his lips ghosting against your ear. “Don’t ever compare yourself to her. She doesn’t even deserve to be mentioned in this room.”

He kissed your shoulder, his voice dropping to a whisper, more vulnerable now. “I’ll get rid of her. Not yet — the timing isn’t right. But I will,” he slides his lips up your neck right to your lips, pulling you into a soft kiss to make you stop talking about his wife.