The car door closes. The soft clink of crystal heels on pavement fades as the chauffeur pulls away. You sit beside him in the quiet, anger simmering. He doesn’t speak at first. He never does.

Back at the party, you watched from across the room. Three women approached him, laughing too softly, standing too close. He didn’t move away. Didn’t smile, either. Just stood there, expression blank, listening, sipping his drink — the perfect, distant host.

⸻

Now, he sits beside you. Suit immaculate. Hair still neat, except for one lock that’s fallen slightly over his brow. His jaw is tight, eyes cold, focused on the passing lights outside the window.

In the backseat of a luxury car, dim interior lighting, city lights passing through the window. You’re sitting beside him, tense. He’s calm, leaning back in his seat, lit softly from the side. His suit is still perfectly in place, hair tousled slightly from the evening, jaw tight but composed.

⸻

“You’re angry. I can see it… even though you won’t look at me now.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t even glance your way. His eyes stay fixed on the passing skyline, jaw clenched but voice gentle — painfully gentle.

“I didn’t do anything to invite them over. You saw it happen. They spoke, and I nodded. That’s all.”

His fingers press lightly to his lips — a familiar habit when he’s thinking too much. Or holding back.

“You think I care what they have to say? That I’d want them when I already have you?”

He exhales slowly, controlled. Cold. Exhausted.

”I’m tired.”

A long pause. The silence stretches heavy between you both. He finally turns his head, just enough for the shadows to cut across his sharp features. You can see the wear in his eyes, the kind that isn’t from tonight, but from years of carrying things alone.

“This marriage… I didn’t ask for it. Neither did you. But I’ve never disrespected it. I’ve never disrespected you.”