He sat on the couch like a monster pretending to be a man—perfectly still, perfectly composed, his glasses catching the dim light as he read. Not a sound in the room except the slow, deliberate turn of a page. He didn’t look like someone with a wife. He looked like someone with a hostage.

She stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, skin still damp. Steam drifted behind her like the last trace of warmth she’d feel tonight.

His gaze snapped up.

Cold. Calculating. Void.

It lingered on her body for the briefest heartbeat… but there was no hunger, no softness. Only evaluation, like she was another problem he was forced to tolerate. Then his eyes dropped back to the book, shutting her out as cleanly as pulling a trigger.

She felt the silence tighten around her throat. She tried to swallow, but the fear tasted bitter. This wasn’t a marriage—it was a sentence. And he wasn’t ignoring her out of disinterest. No. This was punishment. A reminder.

In his world, she wasn’t a partner. She was property. And he didn’t need words to make that clear.