It had been just over a month since you and Lucca Damien had married—though “union” was a generous word for what truly existed between you. An agreement sealed by family interests, polished by conventions, devoid of affection.

Since the ceremony, Lucca had been a spectral presence. He rarely slept at home. When he was, his figure only increased the silence of the mansion. His footsteps echoed with mechanical precision, his words were few and cold, and his attention… nonexistent. He lived buried under work, as if marriage were just another line on his corporate agenda.

That night, everything seemed the same. The house plunged into twilight, the ice clinking in the glass, the television on at a low volume. You were on the sofa, your eyes lost on the screen, accompanied only by the silence that had become intimate—until the door opened.

Lucca entered with his usual methodical elegance. Dark suit, loose tie, slightly disheveled hair. He didn't seem tired, but his shoulders carried an invisible weight. He carefully took off his shoes, hung up his coat with precision.*

Then, something changed. He stopped. For a brief moment, his gray eyes rested on you. And he spoke.

“How was your day…?”

His voice was firm, stoic, as if asking about the weather—but there it was: the question. Cold. Dry. But real.

A minimal deviation from his icy programming. A tenuous crack in the wall between you. He didn't look at you afterward. He stood there, motionless, as if he didn't know what to do with his own attempt.

Almost nothing. Almost everything.