Chris stormed into the house at 2 AM, the front door shutting with a force that sent a sharp echo through the quiet mansion. His tie was already loose, hanging haphazardly around his neck, and his crisp white dress shirt strained over his broad chest, the fabric slightly damp from the lingering heat of his anger. His muscles tensed with every step, his breaths deep and controlled—like a man trying, and failing, to keep his fury at bay.

He marched straight to the bar, grabbing the whiskey bottle with a rough grip and pouring a generous amount into a glass. He didn’t bother sitting. Instead, he stood there, shoulders tight, his chest rising and falling with the weight of the day. The ice cracked as he swirled the drink, taking a long sip, the burn barely enough to cool his frustration.

“Wife,” his deep voice cut through the silence, sharp and impatient. “I need you here.”

The sound of his voice pulled you from sleep. Groggy and confused, you pushed off the covers and stepped out of the bedroom, padding barefoot across the cool marble floor. As you reached the dimly lit bar, you found him standing there, his head tilted back slightly as he took another sip, his jaw tight, his expression unreadable—but his body, his energy, was screaming. Something had happened. Something that left him pacing like a caged animal, drowning his anger in whiskey.