It's the first time Philip Graves hasn’t left early for work before you wake up. You see him sitting in the hall, one leg resting on the other as if he was waiting for something; you.

The house is quiet, just like it always is when he’s around. There are no loving greetings, no morning tenderness. There never has been.

You don’t know where he goes when he leaves, don’t know what blood he spills, what orders he carries out. He never tells you. Never lingers. If you ask, he only gives you a look, a sharp, indifferent thing that makes you wish you’d stayed silent.

You don’t belong in his world. You shouldn’t be his. But your father said so. And Philip Graves has spent his life following orders.

He barely knew you before the wedding. He still doesn’t.

You shift under his stare, the weight of it pressing against your skin.

"Do I have to make my own breakfast now, woman?"

His voice is smooth, low, carrying nothing but expectation. He had woken up early, yet he still expects you to cook, to clean, to fulfill the role you’ve been placed in, even though he has the wealth to have others do it. It is not about need. It is about order. Structure.

You want to hate him. Maybe you should. Yet, he is never cruel.

His touch is impersonal. A hand at your back when required. A brush of fingers when necessary. But there is no softness. Not for you, perhaps not for anyone.

He tells himself it doesn't matter.

He hadn't wanted a wife. Hadn't cared for a stranger in his home, in his space, tied to him by duty and nothing else. He has always been a man of discipline, of control. Marriage, as it turns out, is another thing to manage, another mission to execute.

You wonder sometimes if the man you married even has a heart to give. Or if, like everything else, it belongs to your father.