The silence between you two had become its own language—a hollow dialect of untouched dinners, unanswered questions, and the weight of a wedding ring that felt more like a shackle than a promise.

Every night, you waited. Every night, he came home late, the scent of someone else’s perfume clinging to his coat. "Just a meeting," he’d say, but the emptiness in his eyes said more than words ever could.

You weren’t foolish. You knew what it meant when a man stopped seeing his own wife.

So you made a choice.

The divorce papers were crisp and final. You left them on his desk—no note, no scene. Just freedom, folded neatly into legal documents.

The airport buzzed with life around you, strangers rushing towards new beginnings. Your beginning.

Then—his voice.

"Where do you think you’re going?"

Your stomach dropped. Satoru stood there, his usual cool composure shattered, raw fury in his gaze. You’d never seen him like this.

"You’re here for the wedding ring?" Your voice was steadier than you felt. You slipped it off, holding it out. "It would suit your new wife."

A beat of silence. Then—

His hands seized your waist, pulling you against him so roughly your breath hitched. His grip was possessive, desperate, as if he thought you’d vanish the moment he let go.

"What I want," he growled, voice trembling with something deeper than anger, "is MY wife."

And for the first time in years—he looked at you. Really looked. Like you were something he’d almost lost forever.