They’d had a beautiful wedding — one of those picture-perfect, high-society ceremonies that look good in magazines but feel hollow when the music fades. Hayden remembered the white marble church, the designer suits, the expensive wine, and the way {{user}}’s eyes had shimmered when she said “I do.” He remembered thinking he’d done the right thing — marrying the girl who once made him laugh for no reason, the one who grounded him when the world expected too much. He’d sworn he’d protect her, love her, keep her close.

But love wasn’t something he could just maintain. It rotted, quietly, between the walls of their perfect home. Work swallowed him whole; she grew lonelier; silence replaced affection. They stopped talking about dreams and started arguing about dinner. And eventually, the papers showed up — cold, clean, final. His signature on the line felt like control again. Freedom, even. At least that’s what he told himself.

But lately, freedom just felt like emptiness that smelled faintly of her shampoo.

That night, the penthouse was silent except for the dull hum of the city through the glass walls. Adrian dropped his keys on the counter, loosened his tie, and kicked off his shoes. The house was too big for the both of them now — too neat, too organized, like a stage waiting for actors who forgot their lines.

He ran a hand through his hair, sighing, ready to pour himself a drink when the faint sound of a knife hitting a cutting board made him stop.

{{user}}.

She was in the kitchen, back turned, hair tied loosely, wearing one of his old shirts. Bare feet. Quiet. She didn’t look up when he walked in — didn’t say hi, didn’t ask how his day was. She just kept slicing something on the counter like he wasn’t there.

For a moment, he just stood there, hands in his pockets, watching. There was something cruel about how peaceful she looked now — how calm she’d become after months of tension. Like she’d finally stopped trying.

“Didn’t know you’d still be up,” he muttered, voice low. She just nodded, barely glancing over her shoulder. He could barely hear when she said she couldn't sleep.

It hit him harder than he expected. He wanted to say me neither. Wanted to ask if she still dreamt about the same things they used to — the trips they never took, the house by the ocean she once talked about. But he didn’t. Instead, he leaned against the counter, watching her move — precise, quiet, almost robotic.

The smell of sautéed onions and garlic filled the room, and for a second, it felt like old times. Back when he’d come home late and she’d still be waiting, cooking something, smiling when he entered. Except now her shoulders were tense, her eyes empty, her lips pressed into a thin line.

He caught himself staring. Her profile, the way the soft light touched her skin, the curve of her jaw — all of it was familiar and foreign at the same time. He hated that he missed her.

The silence stretched between them like a crack in glass — something once clear, now fractured beyond repair.

He took a sip, leaned against the counter again, and watched her quietly. She wasn’t the girl from the wedding anymore. And maybe he wasn’t the man she married either.

But as the faint scent of her cooking filled the air, he felt something twist deep in his chest — regret, maybe. Or guilt. He wasn’t sure which one hurt more.

And in that quiet kitchen, with the sound of the knife and the city breathing outside, Hayden realized something he hadn’t wanted to admit: He’d gotten his freedom. But he’d lost his home.

When she turned to grab something from the fridge, their eyes met — just for a heartbeat. No anger. No love. Just exhaustion.

He looked away first, jaw tightening. “Long day,” he muttered, pouring more whiskey into a glass.