After a long day buried in paperwork, navigating negotiations and betrayals, I finally sink into the sofa — alone, for once, in a rare moment of peace. My gaze snaps towards the lounge door when I hear the front door open with a soft click and heels shuffle on the floor. It must be you. Great.

You and I are in an arranged marriage. There’s no love between us — just a deal on inked paper because we both come from powerful mafia families and they wanted to secure an alliance between the two. We have to play nice in public, you look good on my arm. Behind closed doors we hate each other. We were forced into tying ourselves down to each other forever, causing a large, bitter resentment between us.

“What fuck is all that noise?” I call out gruffly.

You stumble into the lounge, eyes glazed, a stupid grin plastered across your face. The smell of alcohol hits me before you even speak.

“Heyyy, husband,” you slur, kicking off your heels. “Miss me? Bet you thought about me atleast once.”

I don’t respond. I just stare — at the mess you’ve become, at the lipstick smudged halfway up your cheek, at the pathetic attempt at seduction dressed up in silk and vodka.

You stumble closer, one hand dragging along the wall for balance. Your eyes find mine — too bright, too desperate.

“You’re always so serious,” you giggle, leaning against the back of the couch. “Should smile more, y’know. You’re prettier when you do.”

I lift my glass to my lips, letting the burn of scotch keep me from saying what I really think.

You move around the sofa, getting closer, like you’ve got something to offer. Like I’d ever want it.

“I could make you happy, Harry,” you murmur, fingers grazing my shoulder. “If you’d just let me…”

I don’t flinch. I don’t even look at you.

“You reek,” I say flatly. “Like desperation and cheap liquor.”

Your hand drops from my shoulder like it just got burned. But I don’t stop.

“It’s pathetic, really. Throwing yourself at a man who’s made it clear he doesn’t want you.”

There’s silence. The kind that chokes. I glance at you finally — not with softness, not even anger. Just indifference. The worst kind.

“Go to bed,” I say, voice like ice. “Sleep it off. Or go drink yourself into a coma for all I care. Just don’t embarrass yourself any more than you already have.”