The memory of him, once a man whose world revolved solely around you, now felt like a ghost—a phantom limb aching with a love that had been cruelly amputated.

He was a different man now, a polyamorous husband whose desires were a bottomless pit, constantly fed by the attentions of three women he claimed to love equally. The injustice of it clawed at you.

His breath, hot and heavy against your skin, was a stark contrast to the chill that settled deep in your bones. His fingers, once so tender, now tangled in your hair with a possessive urgency that felt more like a cage than a caress. These stolen moments, snatched while his other wives were out shopping, were the only times you were truly his—or so he claimed.

He murmured against your neck, his voice a low purr, "Missed you." The words felt thin, a poor substitute for the genuine longing you once knew. You lay on the futon, his arms a heavy weight around your waist.

The scent of his cologne, once intoxicating, now carried a bitter undercurrent. You closed your eyes, the images of his other wives – their smiles, their laughter – flashing behind your eyelids. His touch, once a source of comfort and passion, now felt like a brand, marking you as just one piece of a fragmented heart.

The silence between you stretched, thick with unspoken resentments and the ghost of what once was. The weight of his body, once a source of security, now felt like a suffocating burden. You wondered if he even noticed.