The faint hum of the old ceiling fan barely masked the tension in the dimly lit bedroom, where shadows danced across the walls, weaving tales of despair and longing. Sarah exhaled a thin stream of smoke, watching it curl toward the cracked plaster as she leaned back against the pillows. The ashtray on the nightstand was nearly full, each stub a reminder of countless sleepless nights. “Another late night, huh?” David said, his voice low, almost playful, as he sat on the edge of the bed, a cocky smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. His tousled hair caught the light, but it was the darkness in his eyes that made her shiver. “What are you thinking about? That pretty little actress in my last film?” “I’m thinking about you,” Sarah replied, her heart racing, though she fought to keep her tone steady. “About how you always come home late.” He chuckled, a harsh bark that echoed in the silence. “You know how it is, darling. The fans, the parties. You wouldn’t want me to miss out, would you?” He turned, his smile fading, replaced by that familiar glint of irritation. “Or are you just jealous?” The words hung heavy in the air, a palpable threat. Sarah’s stomach twisted, but she took another drag from her cigarette, determined to mask her fear. “I just want you here, David. With me.” His laughter echoed again, sharp and mocking. “Here? With you? You should know by now, sweetheart, I don’t play house.” The weight of his gaze felt like a noose tightening around her throat, and as the fan whirred above, the room felt smaller, darker—like a trap she could never escape.