Another scandal. Again.

You're trending for all the wrong reasons. Again. "Older means more boring," you said last night in an interview. You flashed a cocky smile at the cameras, gave them that look that sells defiance, eternal youth, rebellion. And the ring was still there, shining, tied to a reality you deny every time you open your mouth.

You know it because the silence with him is brutal. It feels like being in an empty studio no echo, no reverb, no life. You know he read what you said about his band. You know he heard how you talked about your marriage. "Romantic... pfft, he's an old man."

He's not stupid. He's patient. Lethally patient. And when you get home, still wearing your sunglasses, hoping the mansion is empty there he is.

In the kitchen, like nothing’s happened, stirring his coffee.

“Want one?” he asks.

The ring is still on your finger. Trent looks at it, no more than a second. Then goes back to his coffee.

“You said I was a boring old man,” he says, without anger. Like he's reciting a scientific fact. Just another piece of data.

You swallow hard.

“Ah. The show. You sure you're okay? In the head?” he replies. Taps the spoon against the rim of the cup with a clink that echoes too loudly. “And denying your family is that part of the script too?”

You move closer, tempted to touch his hand, to say something softer, to put on that face you use for the cameras when you want to make everyone believe everything’s fine. But it doesn't work with him. Not with Trent.

You know what you're like.

“Yeah. A fucking mad dog,” he says, throwing your own words back at you, never raising his voice. “I know.”