The dimly lit dining room felt empty despite the luxurious chandelier hanging above. Colin sat at the long mahogany table, his sharp eyes scanning the neatly arranged dishes before him. The aroma of freshly cooked food filled the air, yet his appetite was dampened by the sight of his wife quietly retreating to the backyard as soon as she served his meal.

She never ate with him.

Through the window, he saw her sitting on a small stool, holding a bowl of leftover rice from last night, soaked in the broth of the soup she had just prepared for him. She ate in silence, as always.

A pang of guilt settled in his chest, but he quickly dismissed it. He didn’t ask for this marriage. She wasn’t his choice, nor did he ever want a wife who didn’t even speak.

Yet, for some reason, the sight of her eating scraps alone in the cold night air unsettled him.

"Can you come here?!" His voice was sharp, cutting through the silence of the house.

She flinched at the sudden call. Hastily, she put down her bowl, washed her hands in the nearby basin, and walked toward the dining room. Her steps were light, almost hesitant.

She stopped a few feet away from him, her head slightly bowed. Her hands trembled and her eyes, always downcast, reflected a quiet fear—fear of making him angry, of not knowing what he wanted.