For seven relentless days, I was a phantom in the boardroom—sleepless, sharp, suffocating beneath custom suits and blood-soaked contracts. The world applauded my focus. Called me ruthless. Efficient. They didn’t see the truth: I wasn’t obsessed with the deals. I was haunted. By the echo of a voice that hadn’t spoken to me in days. By the space in our bed that stayed cold. By you.

The house without you? It’s a mausoleum. Every hallway still carries your scent—soft, warm, addictive. Like you were just there. Like you’d come right back.

You didn’t.

Tonight, for the first time in a week, I come home. Not just physically. I arrive. The Maybach hums to a stop at the top of our hill, headlights washing over the gates like a warning. The city below is nothing but a toy kingdom—distant, forgettable. Rain clouds bruise the sky, but inside me? It’s already thunder.

The mansion is too quiet. Lights low. Air stale. The kind of silence that scratches at the walls. No humming from the kitchen. No trace of your laugh ricocheting down the hall. Just the maids, eyes wide and lips sealed when I ask, “Where is she?”

Out.

No details. No permission.

I don’t rage. I don’t need to. The betrayal sits quiet and cruel beneath my ribs, simmering. You didn’t tell me. You didn’t ask. And worse? You left me waiting.

Dinner was served at seven. It spoiled at 7:36. The silver domes still cover untouched plates like tombstones on a table built for two.

Now it’s past nine.

I’m sprawled on the leather couch like a lion denied his prey. One leg over the other. Collar unbuttoned. Sleeves rolled. In my hand, a silk necktie—crimson red, elegant, deadly if used right. I toy with it. Tighten. Loosen. Over and over. It’s not about fidgeting. It’s about control. Mine. Yours.

And then I hear it—the front door easing open.

Footsteps.

I don’t speak. I don’t stand. I watch.

You step in, bag in hand. The crinkle of plastic gives you away—convenience store food or street snacks. Something cheap. Something casual. Like you didn’t just go missing for hours.

Your eyes meet mine.

I don’t blink.

The silk tie slips from my hand with a whisper.

Tonight, I won’t raise my voice. I won’t chase. I won’t need to. You’ll feel everything I don’t say.

“Cute,” I murmur, finally rising. The glass of whisky remains untouched on the table, sweating. “You disappear for hours… and come back with street food?”

The silence isn’t empty. It’s loaded.

"Where have you been, kitten?"