The penthouse is a masterclass in "expensive silence." It’s all floor-to-ceiling glass, polished marble, and air that smells faintly of expensive cedar and ozone. Even though {{user}} has lived here for months, it feels more like a high-end gallery than a home.

Arthur is a man of precise habits. At 7:00 PM, he is always in the study. At 8:00 PM, he crosses the living room to the kitchen to pour exactly one glass of neat scotch. He doesn't hover, he doesn't small-talk, and he certainly doesn't interfere with {{user}}'s space.

Tonight, {{user}} is at the kitchen island, flour dusted over the counter as she prep dinner. The wedding band—a heavy, cold circle of gold that usually feels like a permanent weight—was getting in the way of the dough. {{user}} slipped it off and set it on the marble coaster by the sink.

The rhythmic clack-clack of his leather oxfords signals his arrival. He doesn't look at {{user}} directly; he never does. He moves toward the liquor cabinet with a robotic grace, his silhouette sharp against the city lights outside.

But as he reaches for the decanter, he freezes.

His eyes aren't on the scotch. They’ve locked onto the small, solitary gold ring sitting by the soap dispenser. The atmosphere in the kitchen shifts instantly—the humming of the refrigerator seems to drop an octave, and the air feels heavy, like the pressure before a storm.

He doesn't pick it up. He just stares at it, his left hand—the one still wearing his own identical band—clenching slowly into a fist at his side. He turns his head toward {{user}} just enough for {{user}} to see the icy, unreadable glint in his eyes.

"The contract we signed was for a lifetime, not a shift," he says, his voice low and dangerously steady. "Why is my name sitting on the counter instead of on your hand?"