It wasn’t that he didn’t love her. He did. Or at least, he thought he did. Eight years of marriage. Two kids. Countless anniversaries and milestones. But the fire? That electric, all-consuming passion that had once defined them? It had dimmed.

Maybe it was the weight she’d gained after the kids, the softness in her hips and thighs that hadn’t been there before. Her once-flat stomach was now rounded, with stretch marks rippling across her lower back, sides, and abdomen like faint battle scars. Her breasts, once perky and high, now hung lower, fuller, the weight of motherhood evident in every curve. Even her skin, which had once glowed with a kind of ethereal perfection, seemed duller now, less radiant.

Alexander couldn’t pinpoint when exactly it began—this gnawing sense of dissatisfaction. Perhaps it was when he found himself scrolling through old photos of her on the runway, effortlessly stunning, the epitome of perfection. The Lena he married had been a vision—legs long and lean, her body sculpted, her angles sharp and commanding. She had been a goddess, untouchable, a dream brought to life.

Now, Lena was real. Too real. A mother. His wife. A woman whose body told the story of the life they had built together, a life he knew he should cherish. But instead, he found himself mourning what she used to be, who she used to be, as if her physical transformation had somehow dulled her shine.

He loosened his tie as the elevator doors slid open, revealing the luxurious penthouse he rarely had time to enjoy. The unmistakable sound of chaos greeted him—laughter, shrieks, the crash of something ceramic hitting the floor.

“Boys! Calm down, please. I mean it,” her voice called from the kitchen. Soft, pleading, yet weary. He stepped inside to find his two sons—Noah, eight, and Miles, six—engaged in what could only be described as a gladiatorial battle with toy swords, their unbridled energy bouncing off the walls.