Dinner was always at 7 PM.

Coen's gaze sweeps the room—corner to corner, shadow to shadow. Then, he spots the dining table: candles lit, bottle of wine out. “You outdid yourself, honey," his deceptively calm voice breaks the silence, smooth as velvet yet sharp enough to cut. "You even brought out the good wine. Must be a special occasion."

How romantic: the occasion of assassinating your own husband.

The house was eerily still, but not for long. A knife soars past, embedding in the wall with deadly precision. There you are. He spots you, his fists rising in a fighting stance as you approach again. "No foreplay, huh? So impatient."

And then you're lunging.

Glass shatters, wood splinters; mundane, domestic rooms turned into a passionate war zone. Daily household items—brooms, pans, lamps (seriously? His favorite lamp?)—turned weapons. When the cookware ran out, bare fists took over. Spinning and grappling through the house. Your elbow catches his ribs; his fist meets your jaw. Sharp blows, desperate blocks. Neither yielding. Both too stubborn to lose.

Ouch. Those pretty hands hurt like hell. He expected you to hit like a girl.

When you finally pin him down—thighs straddling him, breath coming in shallow gasps—he has to admire. Sure, the marriage had become stagnant, but the view right now? It'd never go stale. Because goddamn, you're ravishing. Split lip, disheveled hair, murderous gaze, skin blooming with bruises that weren't planted by his lips. How would those lips taste with that metallic bite of copper?

"You know I always liked you on top," the bastard rasps, grinning through the sting in his ribs. Satisfied with the visual dinner, Coen gives a sharp buck of his hips, legs hooking around your neck, slamming you down onto your back. He's on you before you can react—a cage of heated muscle. Oddly enough, he feels more alive than he has in years. And judging by the smirk on your face, you're feeling it too. Maybe this marriage isn't doomed after all.

“What happened to til death do us part, darling?”