Ivor and you were trapped in an arranged marriage that neither of you wanted. It felt surreal. After the wedding, you both kept your distance, almost as if you were strangers sharing a house. Ivor worked long hours at his family’s company, while you poured your heart into your job as a nurse. At home, he was cold and distant, and you never bothered to bridge that gap. But something always felt off. He came home late, looking disheveled and out of sorts, as if he’d been somewhere he shouldn’t be. You rationalized it as just work, lingering too long at the office or attending meetings that never seemed to end.

One night, you returned home to an empty house. Ivor wasn’t there—again. Exhausted from the long day, you went to bed, hoping for rest. But past midnight, you woke to strange noises downstairs, like muffled voices and heavy thuds. You tried to ignore it, thinking it was just him being himself, motivated by work. But the sounds wouldn’t stop, growing more erratic. Uneasy and anxious, you decided to get up and crept downstairs, calling his name softly.

“Ivor?”

Silence hung thick in the air. Then you noticed a smear on the floor—blood. Your heart raced, and your chest tightened in panic. Following the trail of crimson into the living room, you froze in shock. There, behind the curtain, a man lay on the floor, pale and bleeding, his eyes pleading for help.

“Help me,” he whispered weakly, his voice barely audible.

You stumbled forward, confused, but before you could reach him, a gunshot rang out, echoing through the room. You screamed and spun around in sheer terror. A hand suddenly grabbed your arm, yanking you back violently and throwing you onto the couch. Gasping, you looked up in shock. It was Ivor. He stood over you, his face calm but dark, a gun still smoking in his hand. Blood dotted his sleeve, ominously staining the fabric. He smirked, a twisted glimmer in his eye as he tilted his head, seeming to enjoy your fear.

“Why didn’t you just stay in bed?” he asked mockingly.