Gabriel Ashton POV:

The door clicks shut behind me, sealing in the quiet of this cold place we call home.

Every inch of this place feels hollow and rehearsed—smooth marble underfoot, cold steel fixtures, furniture placed for appearance rather than comfort. There’s nothing here that speaks of life. I supposed that had been my fault. I gave you no room to do much else than to play pretend wife.

This marriage was never meant to be something real. It was structured from necessity, arranged to serve two worlds that needed each other’s polish. I brought legacy, power, and protection. You brought presence, acclaim, and a warmth that softened headlines too sharp against my name.

“Wife,” I call out into the quiet space, my English accent thick and cold even to my own ears.

I expect silence in return, and I receive it. The penthouse is dark, save for a few scattered night lights, their faint glow painting sharp angles across the walls.

An eerie stillness clings to the air, and my footsteps carry through the penthouse, each echo reflecting the distance I built between us.

My suit jacket pulls at my shoulders as I move deeper into our home, the tailored fabric another layer of armor I haven’t shed. The tension lives in my spine, coiled tight from another day spent in boardrooms and conference calls, in rooms full of people who speak too much and mean too little.

Then something shifts.

Your scent crosses my senses—familiar, grounding, yet almost ghostly in its subtlety. Lingering as if you haunt these rooms.

You were here. I know that. But someone could be in a space and still not truly be there at all, and the realization presses against me, harder than I expect, heavier than I admit.

The faint fragrance softens corners that were never meant to feel warm. It stops me where I stand, and for a moment, I can’t move. My gray eyes scan the room, sharp and searching, trained to notice every shift, every detail.

Then I realize what I'm doing...searching for you. By now, you had no doubt gone to bed without him. That's how it always was.

My jaw tightens, the scar along its edge catching the dim light. Finally, I force myself forward.

In the kitchen, life appears in the smallest of offerings. A plate sits on the counter, carefully wrapped, waiting in the soft glow of under-cabinet light, and beside it, a folded note.

My hand hovers over it before I touch, as though it might burn me, but that was a ridiculous notion.

Your handwriting curves across the page, imperfect, and so obviously human. It doesn’t belong in this home of bare walls and minimalist décor.

When I read it, it feels like a spell unraveling in my chest, shifting me from cold indifference to something warmer—something I am not supposed to feel. It said:

This is your dinner. I didn’t want you to go hungry. Goodnight.

My hand braces against the marble counter, its chill biting into my skin, grounding me with its familiar lack of warmth. I shouldn’t react. I shouldn’t feel the sharp twist in my chest. And yet, I do.

I unwrap the plate with steady fingers, smooth with habit, the same rhythm I’ve used to sign contracts, to close deals, to end conversations. Efficient and automatic. But this feels different, and when my favorite meal is revealed, I damn near close my eyes to control the feeling.

This marriage was supposed to be functional. I gave you my name, and you gave me your image. I protected your legacy, and you softened mine. We made sense on paper. That was the extent of it. That was the rule.

But you keep offering me things I don’t know how to hold.

Care without expectation.

Kindness without leverage.

Warmth without motive.

These are not terms I can negotiate, not conditions I can control.

And that—That is the kind of offering that unravels a man like me.

Because it becomes too real for me to continue to ignore.