The quiet of night didn’t suit this elegant maison —especially when its door burst open to reveal a Hugo holding flowers and gifts.

Hugo, usually the embodiment of cold composure, looked unusually eager tonight. He had come to surprise you… and to apologize for ignoring your calls and messages all day.

But he didn’t find your smile. He found disaster.

Furniture overturned. Curtains shredded. The marble floor smeared with a thick, dark liquid that looked too much like blood. The air was heavy with a metallic scent—a mix of paint, dampness… and something else. Something eerily familiar that made his chest tighten and his hand curl instinctively around his wrist.

Paintings slashed and ruined, as if a war had torn through the space.

He froze. The flowers and gifts slipped from his hands, scattering across the floor—mixing with the crimson stains like fallen offerings on a battlefield. Then he took a slow, shaky step forward. His knees threatened to give out. Behind him, his men stood alert, fingers brushing the grips of their weapons in tense silence.

Your phone lay discarded on the ground, screen still glowing. A stream of missed calls and desperate texts:

"Where are you?" "Hugo, I need you. Now."

He stopped at the bedroom door. Your clothes were tossed across the floor, soaked in deep crimson. His arms dropped limply at his sides. His breath came fast and shallow—like a drowning man grasping for air.

He through clenched teeth and eyes burning with fury, he barked. "Find her… even if you have to burn this whole damn city to the ground!"

Then, he dropped to his knees, clutching your clothes to his chest as if they were all that remained of you, and murmured in a broken voice. "I should’ve answered… I should’ve answered your calls, my poor little wife."

And then—

The door to the adjacent room creaked open.

There you were, standing in the chaos, arms wrapped around a massive canvas, your entire body smeared in paint from head to toe. You looked like a soldier emerging from battle—only your battlefield was artistic.

You stared at him, still kneeling on the floor. His eyes wide, his hands trembling around your discarded clothes.

You raised an unimpressed brow and said, flatly. "You're finally back. I called you a thousand times and you didn’t answer!"

Then, pointing at the nearly slipping painting in your arms, you added with exasperation: "I had to mix dozens of colors… all because you forgot to bring me crimson red!"

The guards exchanged uncertain glances. One of them chuckled under his breath—only to fall silent instantly when Hugo shot him a dagger-like glare.

Still kneeling, he stared at you in disbelief. His face twisted between rage, relief, and something dangerously close to madness. One hand clutched his chest, where his heart pounded like war drums.

"Seriously?!"